Clarion:Part 1-The Sparrow
by MostDismalFeldsparkle
Summary: April 2155. A weary and shattered crew. A cry for help across the night. The shadow of an unseen hand.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** **I don't own Star Trek, Enterprise, its characters, or settings. These things are the property of Paramount, and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.**

* * *

 **April 2155**

Hoshi stifled a yawn and blinked several times. Each blink was gritty and uncomfortable, ever so slightly regretted. The Jupiter station work crew had deployed several light columns around the bridge. They were blue-white and utterly overwhelming. Worse still were the multiple diagnostic tools, each of which was emitting a unique and exquisitely irritating hum. Between the cacophony, and the too-many cups of coffee at breakfast, Hoshi felt the beginning of a spectacular headache brewing behind her reddening eyes. She glanced from Commander T'Pol to Captain Archer, and back. She would have to alert at least one of them before ducking down to sickbay for a painkiller and she was already dreading the needle-like pain that each exchanged word would produce.

Neither of the two looked happy. A transmission from Starfleet command had put Archer in a mood, one which had only worsened in the hour since, on his slightly too noisy, slightly overbright, bridge. He was twitching in his chair, clearly struggling to focus on whatever he was reading. He would undoubtedly be pacing again shortly. T'Pol, on the other hand, was sitting distractingly still. She was arched over the science station with none of her usual elegance. She seemed somehow spiky, too angular, her face strangely drawn and distorted by uncharacteristic tension in her forehead. T'Pol's nostrils twitched slightly and, a second later, Hoshi was also aware of a weird tinny smell emanating from a machine being deployed near the helm. Its operator showed no sign of concern, however, and so Hoshi resumed pondering whether Archer or T'Pol would excuse her to sickbay with the least conversation.

She had just decided on Archer, when a flicker in her peripheral vision caught her attention. Supressing a sigh, she directed the incoming signal to her earpiece, flinching as static and a scrambled, frantically spoken, message poured into her brain.

 _...request assistance...adrift... heavy damage..._

"Sir? We are picking up a distress signal. It sounds Kreetassan".

Archer spun around to face her. "Kreetassan?"

He sounded startled and a little grim. He did not do well with Kreetassans.

T'Pol reviewed her console. "Long range sensors detect a Kreetassan cruiser approximately 1.1 light years away."

"I thought long-range sensors were still off line," Archer replied, crossing his arms across his chest and thrusting his chin out slightly.

Hoshi thought she saw T'Pol's eyebrow twitch in annoyance, but her response was smooth.

"I am referring, Captain, to the sensors of the Neptunian array..." She paused, tilting her head, before adding, "...I will be bringing our own sensors on line once the maintenance team completes their final tests." T'Pol raised a questioning eyebrow in the direction of the crew chief, an ebullient woman who was currently fussing with the tactical station. Her ever-present smile melted slightly under the Vulcan's questioning glare.

"Err... nearly done. Ten minutes."

Archer waved carelessly in response and returned his attention to T'Pol. "What are the Kreetassans doing around here?"

"There is an IME conference in Kuala Lumpur at the end of the month. I suspect they may be delegates."

Hoshi's own console drew her attention. Her stomach dropped. "Sir? Command has tasked us with responding.

Archer wheeled towards her, eyes widening. "Us? But…" He swung his arms vaguely indicating the maintenance crew and the state of the bridge generally before continuing. "Surely _someone else_ is closer?"

He did not do well with Kreetassans.

"Ten minutes. We'll be right out of your hair," the maintenance chief piped in a helpful tone.

Archer ignored her.

Hoshi's head began to throb. "There a few civilian vessels that are closer, but they are limited to warp 2. We could get there faster."

"Columbia is...?"

"... Still orbiting Vulcan, sir."

Archer grimaced, rubbed the back of his head and nodded resignedly. "Yeah, okay. Is everyone back on board?"

"Almost... Travis is bringing the new people over now. They should be docking shortly."

Archer grimaced again and Hoshi knew what this one meant as well.

 _New people_

The throbbing was growing worse, so Hoshi cleared her throat. "Sir...? I have a headache and I was wondering if...?"

"Sure, Hoshi. Let Travis know we'll be rushing off, then go to sickbay." Archer turned away from her and opened a channel to Engineering.

* * *

"Yeah, okay Hoshi. We'll be docking soon."

Travis was not at all displeased that departure had been moved up. Shore leave was fine, but that had ended weeks ago, and working in space dock was a drudge. Neither shaving off the last few days of tedium, nor the turmoil of an expedited departure schedule, bothered him in the least.

He considered taking the helm of the transport back but quickly decided against it. Fabrecia Boschmann's beautiful brown eyes had lit up so delightfully when he had told her she'd be piloting the 'pod to _Enterprise_. Instead, he settled into the chair next to her.

"Did you hear that, Ensign Boschmann?" Travis asked. "Gamma shift tomorrow, you'll be piloting the flagship on a rescue mission."

She smiled at him and it was glorious. "How fast do you think we'll be going by then?" she asked, excitement pulling up her shoulders.

Travis considered it, ball-parking a few equations and scenarios, than answered in a deliberately offhand tone, "About 4.4-4.5?"

Fabrecia's eyes widened in delight. "No way! I've never even _travelled_ that fast before!"

Her admission caused a murmuring of concern from many of the other occupants of the shuttle who embarking on their first interstellar assignment. Their dismayed reaction in turn caused an amused snort from Travis…

 _Newbies!_

… but a look of crestfallen doubt from Fabrecia.

Travis attempted to summon some reassuring words but before he had, a friendly voice with a mild Scottish accent rose from the back of the shuttle.

"You'll be grand, Bree! Can't be harder than formation flying in your little Swallowtail, and you know you were the best one up there. Warp 4.5, though? What a thing!"

Fabrecia relaxed at once, nodding agreement.

Travis turned to see who at spoken. The new doctor, he thought, before correcting himself. _Second_ doctor.

The senior staff had all been surprised when Dr Phlox had requested an intern, and then surprised again when he didn't actually hire an intern, but rather a senior fellow suggested by his friend Dr Lucas.

"She'll be useful right away. She has quite solid experience in trauma medicine and critical care, especially compared to an intern," Phlox had over-explained to a slightly perplexed Archer. "She has an interest in acute neurological trauma so she's been working with the Vulcan neurologists in San Francisco. They speak quite highly of her."

"A brain surgeon who gets on well with Vulcans? She _does_ sound pleasant," Malcolm Reed had observed wryly, earning a chuckle from the Captain, Hoshi, and indeed, from Travis himself. Still, Archer had seemed pleased Phlox was finally allowing himself more help and had urged Phlox to hire whomever he liked.

Having met the new doctor, Travis thought she probably _was_ pleasant enough. She moved to sit behind Fabrecia, and the three of them amiably discussed the miraculous Warp 5 engine, as the 'pod made its final approach towards _Enterprise_ 's launch bay.

* * *

"New people!"

Lieutenant Malcolm Reed punctuated his exclamation by shaking of his head. "New people, Wendall. They are always a bloody nightmare."

"Yes, sir," Wendall agreed fervently, while rearranging his grip on several PADDs he was carrying.

"They get lost, they don't know where anything is, they don't know _who_ anyone is. They complain about the food, they lock themselves out of their quarters, they wander into restricted areas, they've _never_ read the handbooks properly…"

"Yes, sir."

Malcolm could tell that Wendall was only half listening to him, but did not mind. He had no particular need to be heard, it was the talking itself that he found therapeutic. He briefly considered taking advantage of Wendall's inattention by adding some preposterous examples to his rant but ultimately decided against it. There were, after all, plenty of real examples to call upon. The previous intake had been unusually large and the division between the 'old' crew and the 'new' crew was still palpable. And now, there were even newer new-people coming.

"At least there are only six this time."

"Yes, sir."

"I do wish we could stop haemorrhaging experienced staff. First Columbia, now Resolute..."

"Yes, sir."

"The vultures could pick over someone else, for a change. This supposed to be the flagship, not a bloody crèche..."

"Yes, sir."

"And we have a rescue mission, right off the bat! At least it's only the Kreetassans. They're harmless enough…"

"Yes sir."

"...assuming, of course no betentacled stow-aways this time..."

"Yes sir."

A PADD was slipping from Wendall's left hand and as he turned his attention to it, another two slipped from his right.

Malcolm stooped to catch them, taking his attention off where he was walking. "New people... can't stand them. Bloody nightmare…" he intoned loudly, ploughing straight into the little knot of people clustered in the corridor outside the launch bay.

* * *

Fabrecia's docking procedure had been nearly textbook. Travis delighted in both telling her so and in basking in the beautiful smile that had resulted. He continued to admire her as she collected her baggage and chatted to the other new arrivals. She had a certain bounding energy to her step and an endearing coltishness which contrasted with her elegant features. A guy could get quite smitten, Travis thought to himself.

"She's from Suriname, has three miniature pinschers, triathlete, enjoys canasta," came a whisper from beside him.

The accent was unmistakable, but when Travis turned to look at her, the new doctor showed no indication of having spoken. She was looking around the launch bay thoughtfully, bags already collected. Travis was surprised to note a guitar strung over her shoulder and, for some reason, a clear plastic bag stuffed with squirming invertebrates in her hand.

Travis silently resolved to learn something about canasta (like what the hell it was, for example...) and then shepherded the small group out into the hallway to await representatives of their respective departments. Showing Fabrecia herself around would be his responsibility and the prospect grew more delightful by the moment.

Jenkins, from Engineering, was already waiting. Travis was in the process of introducing the three new Engineering crew to him when brisk English tones heralded the imminent arrival of Malcolm Reed. Travis could hear he was in high dudgeon and had just enough time to register the topic of the latest rant, "New people... can't stand them. Bloody nightmare.." before Malcolm barrelled straight into Dr Harper. Instinctively, Travis reached to steady her, relieved when she managed to keep a hold on her mysterious bag of worms.

Recovering her balance, she shifted said worms to her left hand and held her right out to Reed, who was staring at her, blinking. "Hello! I'm Dr Alice Harper," she said friendlily and then, with a small quirk of one corner of her mouth she added "... new person."

Malcolm's answering scowl caused Travis to emit a small snort of amusement, earning him a similar look. Jenkins, Fabrecia, and the others were all staring at Malcolm, awaiting his impending reaction. Jenkins was even cringing slightly.

Eventually, Reed managed, "You're the new doctor?"

Harper nodded, seemingly bemused.

"Why are you holding a bag of worms?"

"For the bat!" she replied in a bright tone at odds with her still quizzical expression.

"What?"

"Dr Lucas has a Pyrithian bat, Hecate, and she really likes these. They're quite healthy for her too. They're full of an amino acid, which is quite rare in her usual diet, and gives her coat a beautiful glossy shine. Quite high in zinc, as well. So I thought I might bring some along for _Dr Phlox's bat_ in case she likes them as much as Hecate. Do you happen to know her name? The bat's name...?"

Harper trailed off as Reed's face morphed into an intense, unreadable expression. Silence drew out again and Travis seriously considered fabricating a name for Phlox's bat just to fill it. Eventually, Jenkins called for his three charges to follow him, in a slightly too high voice, and lead them off, slightly too quickly. Wendall, who Travis had not even noticed until then, efficiently collected the new security crewman, handing him half of the PADDs he was carrying. They hurried off together.

Abruptly, Reed spoke again. "I don't think the bat has a name. I'll show you where Sickbay is. Apparently, Phlox has forgotten you." He immediately turned and started walking quickly back the way he had come. Harper looked slightly alarmed as she collected herself, nodded and smiled to Travis and Fabrecia, and followed Reed away down the hall.

Now they had been left alone, Fabrecia caught Travis's attention. "So who are we going to rescue, again? Kreetassans?"

Travis smiled. He quite liked the Kretassans. Smoothly scooping up one of Fabrecia's bags, he related, while walking, the story of the Kretassan first contact, finding himself slightly playing up his own modest, but crucial, role. Fabrecia was enjoying the story, clearly hanging on his words, and he was enjoying her enjoying it. Travis had just reached the part about Hoshi when, unprompted, Gannet's face popped into his head. He frowned slightly as tried to shake away the thought.

Perhaps misinterpreting his frown, Fabrecia reached for a new subject, asking "What exactly _is_ a Pyrithian bat?"

* * *

Hoshi sighed in relief as Phlox finally stopped fussing and administered an analgesic hypospray. It blew away her headache almost instantly, like a cool breeze flowing through her head. Hoshi allowed herself to enjoy the sensation, and tuned out from Phlox's continuing lecture about her sleep and caffeine habits. She let her eyes drift over sickbay. The normally tidy area was filled with clutter, and Phlox himself was uncharacteristically flustered, as he tried to ready his department for _Enterprise_ 's early departure. Various animals were chattering in a strident, unsettled manner. A nearby cage had been topped by a box of pharmaceuticals and a stack of PADDs. Whatever creature was inside the cage battered at these, furiously, from underneath.

"Feeling better, Ensign?"

Hoshi nodded absently in reply.

Phlox followed her gaze. "Ah yes. Rather more conventional medications than I am used to. I am not quite sure where I will put them all yet. I ordered them for Doctor Harper..." His voice trailed off for a moment, brow creasing, before continuing. "Oh dear, I believe I have forgotten to collect her."

Phlox made to move toward the comm panel when, as if summoned, a glowering Malcolm Reed stormed through the door. He was followed by a tall, rather disconcerted-looking, woman carrying two luggage cases, a guitar, and a bag of something slimy.

"Sickbay," Malcolm announced, studiously avoiding looking at either Phlox or Hoshi.

Hoshi screwed up her nose slightly and found herself capriciously trying harder to catch his eye.

"Thank you...?"

Even distracted by Malcolm, Hoshi clearly caught both the Highland accent and the nervous, rising intonation of the new arrival.

"Doctor Harper! I'm so sorry I neglected to meet your shuttle! I'm so glad you are here," Phlox said, bustled towards her in a friendly manner.

The woman, apparently Dr Harper, turned towards Phlox, mumbled a near inaudible hello, and held out the bag of worms to him in a slightly frantic fashion. Not your typical brain surgeon, Hoshi thought with a guilty smirk.

If Phlox was nonplussed, he didn't show it. "Treshu worms! What a delightful gift! My bat will be so pleased."

He smiled a large, quintessentially Denobulan, smile. The smile Harper returned with was uneasy and quite a bit smaller. At Phlox's indication, she placed her luggage in a rare clear area.

Without another word, Malcolm marched back out through the sickbay door. Phlox and Harper looked after him with similar expressions, blinking.

Hoshi decided to follow him. "I'm going to go too. Nice to meet you," she said, smiling vaguely at Harper as she hurried past her.

"Malcolm, wait up," she called to his rapidly receding figure. He slowed his pace, but neither stopped nor turned to face her. She fell into step next to him. He wasn't looking at her, but he would have to in a moment when they reached the turbolift, if he was going to turn to let her step in ahead of him. Which he definitely would.

Hoshi smiled wryly. Malcolm had expounded to her once, on the strategic value he had found in ignoring the 'awkward' in awkward silences, and she felt a small guilty pleasure in trying to turn the technique against him. Unfortunately, he was better at it. She felt a creeping disquiet in her chest in the few remaining moments before reaching the turbolifts and when she did eventually catch his eye, the cold, vaguely hurt look she found there made her even more uncomfortable. They rode toward the bridge in silence, the short trip stretching out almost interminably. In the last few seconds she felt a sudden flash of anger and only with effort did she suppress the urge to shout at him.

When the doors opened to the bridge, to Hoshi's surprise, he exited first.

* * *

Archer turned as Reed and Sato arrived on the bridge and studied their faces.

Nope, he thought grimly. Still not talking. He tracked Reed to tactical station and heard him suck in air through his teeth at whatever minor change the maintenance crew had made to the displays. Archer fought his urge to roll his eyes. He knew Reed would notice if he did. Instead, he flicked his attention to Sato. "Feeling better, Hoshi?"

"Much, sir. Thank you," she replied grouchily, flicking though the material which had accumulated at communications in her absence.

"Either of you happen to see Travis?" Archer asked.

Hoshi shook her head as Reed answered. "He's settling the new pilot in."

"Ahh, Ensign Boschmann. What's she like, Malcolm?" he asked. Archer remembered from her profile that Fabrecia Boschmann was rather pretty and he hoped this fact might have improved Reed's mood.

No such luck though. Reed merely muttered that Archer had best ask Travis, and then returned to tsking at his console.

Archer tried again. "New Security guy okay?"

Reed thought for a moment. "He seemed alright. Wendall's supervising him."

"Someone make it down to meet the Engineering crew?"

Archer asked. Moving up departure and thrown Engineering into a low grade panic and he hoped they had not been forgotten.

"Yes, sir. Jenkins."

Reed didn't even bother to look up that time. Archer sighed. He couldn't bring himself to ask Reed about the new Doctor.

"Sensors back on line, Captain," T'Pol announced in a dull voice. Archer looked over and nodded thanks. She barely returned the gesture. She looked terrible. Wain, and slightly green.

Archer rubbed his forehead, still fuming about the communication from earlier. How can they give Resolute to that asshole? Who the hell thought that was a good idea? He sure didn't, and he knew Erika wouldn't either. Good thing space is big.

He decided to put it out of his mind. The atmosphere on the bridge was getting oppressive. Perhaps, if he could summon a good mood, it would be contagious _. Leadership!,_ he thought grimly. "Think the Kreetassans will be pleased to see Porthos again?" he joked to the room in general.

Disappointingly, Sato and Reed didn't as much as look up. T'Pol inclined her head slightly and pronounced that it was unlikely that any of the medical delegates would be among those who had seen Porthos previously.

"They've probably heard of him, though." Reed's mutter was barely audible.

Still, it was something. Archer made a brief ship-wide announcement that they would be departing in an hour at 1300 (although by now this would not be news to anybody), and then flopped down in his chair, hoping Travis, and his incessant cheer, would arrive soon.

"Engineering to bridge!"

It was a flustered-sounding Lieutenant Hess explaining that there was a problem with the impulse engine's primary drive coil and that she needed three hours to fix it. With a sigh, Archer negotiated her down to an hour and a half, testily reminding her they were on a rescue mission, causing Hess to re-join that while she was aware of that she remained subject to the laws of physics. It was not clear from her communications if Commander Tucker was even present in Engineering.

Archer didn't ask.

* * *

The pulse of _Enterprise_ 's warp engines reverberated through the decks, taking on a particular echoic timbre in the service tube. _Enterprise_ hadn't left space dock until 1530 the previous day, but she was now racing at Warp 4.3 toward the distressed Kreetassan transport. They were still slightly more than four days away.

 _...adrift...heavy damage..._

the static clouded, garbled message had apparently said. That suggested engineering problems. Trip, currently alone in a service tube, absently refitting an EPS relay, was trying to summon some enthusiasm about fixing them. He had managed to fob off departure, and even the unexpected impulse engine failure, onto Lt. Hess, but repairing the Kreetassan systems would be another matter. Patching together damaged alien systems was supposed to be one of Trip's passions and, if he tried to get out of it, then one of his friends, Jon, Malcolm, or god-forbid Hoshi, would hunt him down and try ineptly to manipulate him into not only doing it, but _enjoying it_.

"Well, it will be pretty great to get a look at their Warp Engines," he said to the service tube, in a mostly unsuccessful bid to convince himself.

It was late. Trip, despite his abandonment of Engineering itself to Hess, had been working solidly since before the distress call, snatching sleep in four hour blocks only here and there. Beta shift would be ending soon and Trip decided to beat most of them to the mess in order to get the best of whatever food remained. Despite the general unpopularity of gamma shift, it was beta shift that Trip hated most. It had the worst food _and_ bad hours, working though alpha's evening, and without the peaceful near solitude of gamma.

It was mostly gamma shift workers 'breakfasting' in the mess hall when Trip arrived. He quickly scooped up the second last plate of lasagne from alpha shift's evening meal and turned to select a table. It was then that he spotted Malcolm, who was seated alone in a corner, studying a PADD while mechanically eating breakfast cereal. Trip did some quick mental calculus. If he sat down at an empty table, Malcolm would _probably_ decide to just leave him alone. On the other hand, this action would _probably_ lead to somebody worriedly checking up on him, at some later time. However, given the events of the last two days, Malcolm was likely to be utterly incensed about something or other. If so, all Trip would have to do is nod along as Malcolm expounded upon whatever was bugging him and that would surely count as bona fide _social interaction_ , and get them all off his case for a while.

Nodding along felt achievable right now, so Trip walked over and sat down, not bothering to announce his advent. Malcolm looked up at him with a small start, brow creasing. Trip was fairly certain that his friend was running through his mental list of 'conversation topics to be avoided with Trip'. Trip believed the list currently included T'Pol, Vulcans generally, the planet Vulcan, the Xindi, Florida, Mars, Terra Prime and anyone named Elizabeth. Usually, the existence of _the list_ made Trip feel infuriated. Right now, though, he just felt profoundly tired.

"Good day?"

"Terrible. You?"

"Busy".

Malcolm looked a little perplexed by this answer, but didn't comment.

Trip started on his lasagne which was just slightly too cool to be really pleasant. "Why are you eating breakfast cereal?"

"I'm covering the bridge for gamma shift," Malcolm answered, as if this was sufficient explanation.

"Why are _you_ covering it?"

"New pilot."

Trip wasn't sure why Malcolm had lowered his voice to answer until he indicated a young woman, presumably the same one he had been tasked with babysitting through her first bridge shift, eating a sandwich a few tables away.

"Oh right. Ensign... Boschmann, or something, isn't it? She's kinda pretty..." Trip surprised himself with the boredom in his voice.

"Yeah, I think Travis might be in love," Malcolm replied, sounding equally bored.

"New people, right?" Trip tried. This should have been enough to set Malcolm off for a while, but, to Trip's mild astonishment, his friend just grunted and looked slightly chagrined. Trip made a mental note to ask Travis if he knew what that was about later. It could make for another relatively uncomplicated conversation, further forestalling unwanted inquiries into Trip's well-being.

"Think you'll get to see the Kreetassan warp drive?" Malcolm asked, abruptly.

Trip shovelled some more lasagne while summoning the will to fake enthusiasm. "Hope so. Should be real interesting..." His tone was well off what it should have been and Malcolm looked at him sceptically. Trip decided to just blow past it. "We're still about four days out. Think they'll be okay 'til we get there?"

Malcolm thought for a moment, twitching his spoon absently. "Hard to say when we don't know what's wrong. Ensign Sato didn't get anything else out of the distress signal. It's still being transmitted, but it's damn odd that they never acknowledged our response."

The 'Ensign Sato' caused Trip to inwardly cringe. _This, again? Still? Dammit Malcolm, get over it already!_ Outwardly, he just chewed the lasagne, which had lost the little warmth it had previously and collapsed into a cheesy sludge.

Trip threw down his fork in distaste. "Beta shift needs better food. Maybe I'll get the Captain to have a word with chef about it. It's getting out of hand."

Malcolm nodded along. He did relatively regular beta shifts on the bridge and he had made similar comments to Trip in the past.

"You'd be better off with the cereal."

"Cereal is for breakfast." Trip began to calculate how long it would be before he could politely leave. He needed the sleep.

* * *

Jonathan Archer began the next day determined to maintain good temper, even if only by force of will. He smiled broadly at his officers as he strode onto the bridge, clutching a still-hot cup of coffee. It was right on the hour and the gamma shift bridge officers were handing over their stations to their replacements. Archer quickly ascertained from Sato and her predecessor that there had still been no additional contact from the Kreetassans overnight. Next he checked with a bleary-eyed Reed that there had been nothing _else_ overnight he needed to know about. Reed shook his head, suppressing a small yawn. Archer suspected he had not slept between working alpha and gamma shifts yesterday and had therefore been awake for at least 24 hours. Sipping his coffee, Archer hoped Reed would get some sleep before working on anything explosive. He considered jokingly ordering him to bed, but, in Reed's typical mood of late, such a joke would be just as likely to propel him, bloody-mindedly, down to the Armory to recalibrate something-or-other instead.

Archer turned his attention to Travis Mayweather, who was amiably chatting to Fabrecia Boschmann about her first shift at the helm. The latter was enthusiastically expounding upon how intuitive she found the helm controls and Travis was nodding and smiling, apparently besotted. I suppose he's not _technically_ her direct supervisor, thought Archer, resignedly. Archer actually had planned to put through a promotion for Travis as soon as he got through similar paperwork for Hoshi. He wondered if it might be better to hold off a few weeks. A pre-existing relationship started when Boschmann and Mayweather were both Ensigns would be easier to defensibly 'ignore' later on. Boschmann, showing no sign that she wanted to leave soon, stood looking over Travis's shoulder. Any handover of truly pertinent information had been long completed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw T'Pol slip into the science station and transfer the sensor display back from communications where it had been overnight. She was quite obviously late and Archer resisted the urge to glance in her direction so as not to draw attention to it.

He gave her a few minutes and then turned to speak to her as if she had been there all along. "Any change on long range sensors?" Archer thought that T'Pol's colour was a little better today, and she appeared better rested, although she was still painfully thin to his eyes.

"No change is apparent on standard scans, Captain. I would like to try a more detailed scan, however. The Kreetassans have not responded to our transmissions. Their situation may be deteriorating."

"Go ahead."

The lack of response from the Kreetassans was starting to concern Archer as well. It somehow made the repeating, garbled distress call seem more... sinister. His thoughts kept returning it. He realised he was reading the same paragraphs of the latest manifest over and over and put it down, resting the PADD on his now empty coffee mug and picking up some Kreetassan cultural information instead. He glanced over at Hoshi Sato. She was staring at one of her screens, her lips silently forming words. Archer suspected she was spending the time reviewing the Kreetassan language and tinkering with the UT matrix. Archer wondered idly if the Kreetassans would be so easily offended this time, when _they_ were the ones needing help.

"Captain!"

T'Pol's sharp tone immediately caught his attention. He turned to her, questioningly.

"Preliminary scan results suggest there has been weapons-fire in the vicinity of the Kreetassan vessel."

There was a murmur of consternation across the bridge. Weapons fire on a putative ally barely more than a light year from Earth seemed unthinkable.

Archer battled his own sense of shock. "But... there are no other vessels in the area. Sensors would have detected them. Our sensors, the sensors on Neptune...!"

He looked questioningly at T'Pol who nodded in apparent agreement.

"I agree Captain. There is no evidence that there were ever any hostile vessels, or indeed _any_ vessels in the vicinity of the Kreetassan transport, even prior to the distress signal."

"So they fired their own weapons? At… at nothing?"

T'Pol shrugged one shoulder slightly. "Unknown, Captain."

Archer strode over toward Hoshi, who was listening to the looping distress call, yet again, through her earpiece. He supposed it was to see if she could pick any reference to weapon fire or enemy ships from the static. He then glanced over to Wendall at Tactical. "Can you determine a likely weapon signature?"

It was too much to ask, really, on preliminary results on a scan at this distance, but Wendall looked like he hoped the floor would swallow him as he shook his head.

T'Pol rescued him. "Such an analysis would be far more likely to succeed on completed scans, Captain. We will have the results in two hours."

Wendall shot her a nakedly grateful look before lowering his eyes to his console, colour burning in his cheeks.

"They might have fired weapons to get our attention," suggested Mayweather, from the helm. Archer glanced over at him, noting with surprise to that Boschmann was still on the bridge, standing against a wall, eyes widened with alarm at the conversation. Archer gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile and half nodded, half shrugged at Travis.

"Their distress signal is still being transmitted. Modulating its frequency would be a more typical way of attracting our attention," Hoshi said then, echoing Archer's own thoughts.

"Could be that they can't?" suggested Travis, at which Hoshi merely shrugged.

Archer's sense of foreboding had heightened enough that he hailed Engineering. Expecting Hess, he was pleased to instead hear Trip's voice answer. He succinctly explained the circumstances before asking if they could reach the Kreetassans more quickly.

There was a longer than usual pause before a reply. "Um sure... Warp 4.8 should be sustainable over this distance?"

Archer shot a glance at Mayweather, who murmured that this would save them about 20 hours. He couldn't help but note, with amusement, how impressed Boschmann was at Mayweather's top-of-his-head warp calculations. It would be second nature to her, as well, in a year.

"Take us up to Warp 4.8, Travis…" commanded Archer. Then, thinking with some apprehension about Trip's over-long pause added "...nice and easy."


	2. Chapter 2

Four hours after increasing speed, the senior officers were standing around the briefing table listening to T'Pol relate the, by now familiar, information regarding the Kreetassan vessel's location and transmissions. T'Pol was grateful that Commander Tucker was not in attendance, although she was concerned that he had apparently not ordered Hess or Jenkins to attend either. The old information duly summarised, she added that she had received a subspace transmission from Kreetassa. It had confirmed the on-board complement; three medical officers headed for the IME conference on Earth, as well as four crew, and also provided the name of the vessel, _Treleishkah_ , and some limited specifications

" _Treleishkah_?" Archer asked, wrapping his mouth carefully around the word.

T'Pol nodded. "Yes, Captain. I believe it is named for a small, light-boned, flighted animal indigenous to Kreetassa."

T'Pol looked for confirmation from Ensign Sato. She was feeling more herself since they had left the noisy, disordered environment of space dock. The ship's normal deep-space routines had been re-established and the structure of her life had fallen into place around it. She was carefully scheduling several periods of meditation throughout the day and made sure she held herself to them. This had occasionally made her slightly late, but, she reasoned, it was more logical to arrive a few minutes late if it meant she could be sure she would be calm and effective. She expected that her typical punctuality could resume with time. The missed meals and lost hours of sleep were of more concern, but at least neither was increasing.

Having related _Treleishkah_ 's specifications to the assembled officers, she proceeded to summarise the results of her detailed scan. _Treleishkah_ 's power signature was not detectable at this distance which, given the improved performance of the upgraded sensors, suggested that they were either cold, apart from the still signalling beacon, or with emergency power only.

"So they may not have life support any more?" Archer asked her.

She nodded a reply. "And we will not arrive for another approximately 60 hours."

There was a long pause as the implications filtered through the assembled. T'Pol focused on the middle distance, fighting the urge to close her eyes. The wave of compassion for the seven, potentially dying people on _Treleishkah_ almost overwhelmed her composure. She desperately tried to detach from the sadness, to notice it rather than feel it, to let it go. Even as she struggled a second strong emotion, consternation at her loss of control, arrived.

 _Mother_

And finally, as she always did at her weakest...

 _Elizabeth_

Her heart clenched and knotted. Tears, she was dismayed to realise, were nearly inevitable.

Lt. Reed was her inadvertent saviour, taking the opportunity of her silence to discuss the apparent weapons fire. He had appeared unbidden on the bridge the moment the detailed scan was completed, the much relieved Ensign Wendall rushing away. T'Pol surmised Reed could have had no more than 2 hours sleep in the past 30 hours. Despite being neatly presented, his weariness was evident.

"The scan confirmed that there was weapons fire. It appears to date to around the same time as the initial distress call. The Neptunian sensor array has confirmed they detected no other ships in the area that might have caused it. As far as I can tell, there is only one weapons signature, and it doesn't appear consistent with Klingons, or anything else in our database. We don't really have any information on Kreetassan weapon signatures, though, so it seems most likely that the weapons fire originated from _Treleishkah_ itself."

T'Pol considered this before answering; taking another moment to ensure her voice would be steady. "Ensign Mayweather may be right that the purpose was to get us to increase our speed. We did, after all, do just that."

Ensign Sato shook her head. She had her arms folded across her body and her gaze was directed at the table, eyes slightly unfocused. "I still think they would modulate the distress signal to do that. We gave them a list of coded emergency frequencies as part of the cultural exchange and that would be a much more efficient way, especially if they are low on power."

T'Pol arched an eyebrow. "I agree it does not seem logical with the information we have, but I see no better explanation."

Archer nodded to her. "I guess we will ask when we get there. Which will be about 60 hours, you said?"

"Indeed. At current velocity we will arrive shortly after 0100 in three days' time."

"Okay," Archer acknowledged. " T'Pol, run more scans periodically as we get closer and present them at daily briefings. We could use some more detail of exactly what we are heading for. Meanwhile, I want everyone to prep for both rescue and a recovery. Travis, keep everyone apprised of our estimated time of arrival. Everyone arrange to be on duty for that. Well rested, please."

Archer directed the last comment towards Reed, who nodded vaguely in acknowledgement.

"Alright, dismissed."

The group broke up, Travis returning to his station and Reed moving to exit the bridge.

"Malcolm?"

T'Pol turned her attention to Hoshi, as indeed did Reed, albeit much more slowly and with very poorly concealed annoyance.

"I wanted you to listen to the distress call," Sato said.

"Why?" Reed replied "You're the linguist and I don't know the first thing about Kreetassan. What use would I be?" He half turned away from her as if to leave, but did not actually do so.

Hoshi pursed her lips, but replied calmly. "I realise that, but there are these other sounds. Kind of like... pulses? Given that we've detected external weapons fire I thought they might be hand weapons? Could you take a listen?"

To T'Pol, it looked like Reed would very much like to refuse, or at least put it off until later. He glanced at Archer and then at T'Pol herself as if reminding himself where he was and to be professional. "Alright." he said, following Hoshi to the communications consol. He started as Hoshi handed him her earpiece, turning it slowly in his hands.

"Oh, for goodness sake! My ears are perfectly clean, you know!" Sato snapped sharply, massaging her temples.

T'Pol heard Archer's intake of breath. He caught her eyes and then pointedly rolled his. T'Pol was not entirely sure what he was attempting to communicate by this, but she raised her eyebrow and inclined her head slightly as if she did. To her relief, this seemed to satisfy him leaving her free to excuse herself from the bridge. She could feel her tension rising and knew she badly needed to meditate. She did wonder briefly whether she too should attempt to identify the pulses which Sato had mentioned. Reed was now listening to the distressed call looping through the ear piece while Sato, squinting, indicated the time references of the recording in which she was interested.

"Here at 4 seconds... again at 9... 17..."

"Hmmm..."

Later, she would listen later, T'Pol resolved, and headed for the relative sanctuary of her quarters.

* * *

 _Oh crap. Staff meeting._

He'd had every intention of going, only he had lost track of the time. Pulling himself further down the service tube, Trip wondered why nobody had bothered to try to contact him when he failed to show up.

 _Is a reminder too much to ask?_

Perhaps Lt Hess had covered for him? She'd been doing that a lot lately.

"Too much," Trip said aloud, grimly, to himself.

 _Never_ asked _her to._

He had to talk to T'Pol. He wasn't sure how it had happened but they were back to avoiding each other, the closeness from right after...

 _Elizabeth_

... had just melted away, somehow. At first, it was just isolated, difficult moments; moments when solitude felt easier and easier felt necessary. It was mutual and mutually understood. But over time, it had gotten worse, rather than better, ducking away from each other in corridors, skipped meals, rearranged schedules.

And now, now he had just completely failed to show up to a meeting. And no one had minded enough to try to call him. They were all still making allowances, giving him space.

 _Never_ asked _you to._

It hurt his pride. He wondered idly how long he'd have to be missing before someone would start looking for him. He wondered if T'Pol had been glad he was not at the meeting. He forgot the relay he was working on was live and burnt his hand.

Trip hissed, then swallowed. He held up his hand to the portable light to assess the damage. Parts of his fingers were an angry red and the skin was blistered in a few places. The stinging sensation was joined by a dull, painful throb. Trip flexed his fingers and the throb became a scream. He hissed again. He considered swearing.

"Fuck," he said experimentally.

"Son of a..."

Didn't help. He flexed his fingers again, bracing against the pain and this time feeling a wave of endorphins behind it. Shouldn't this hurt more? he wondered. Probably...

He flexed his fingers again, slowly turning his wrist, looking over his raw, angry skin. Shard of pain... endorphins. He did it again.

There was a strange allure to this. The quiet thrum of the engines echoing down the service tube. The white-blue light. Flex...pain...endorphins...flex. Yet, the realisation was dawning that he would have to go to Sickbay. An untreated burn on his hand was un-concealable and would undoubtedly raise concerns. Not normal behaviour.

 _Right. Sickbay._

He manoeuvred himself carefully out of the service tube, taking care not to bash his sore hand, even as he continued rhythmically flexing his fingers. He opened a nearby panel left-handed, extracted a burn dressing from the first aid kit concealed there, and wrapped it over the worst of part. The pressure of the dressing caused another shock of pain. He found he didn't mind it.

 _Should he_ mind _that he didn't mind?_

The corridors were relatively busy. He walked past loads of people, several of whom clearly noticed his wounded hand. A few offered small sympathetic glances but no one stopped to help. Weird. He would have in their place.

Before, anyway.

None of the occupants of sickbay seemed to notice his arrival. Hoshi was seated on a biobed, eyes closed and head bowed, massaging her eyebrows. Dr Phlox, and a redheaded woman Trip didn't know, were both perplexedly peering at a medical scanner, at a PADD, and back again.

"I've never seen anything like it. Have you?" Phlox didn't sound particularly concerned, or anxious, but rather just amiably befuddled.

Trip noticed Hoshi flinched slightly as he spoke.

"No... I haven't," the stranger answered him. Her voice, perhaps in deference to Hoshi, was pitched quite a bit quieter than Phlox's. She frowned a little, picking up a second scanner and pointing it at Hoshi's head. When the results supplied by the second scanner apparently matched the first, the woman clicked her tongue in frustration. She then pointed it at her own head, causing Trip a small internal chuckle, and then pointed it back at Hoshi with a small shrug.

"It's not the scanners, then. Just two impossibly-identical headaches, two days apart. Are you sure it went away entirely, Hoshi?"

Hoshi's name sounded weird to Trip in the Scottish accent. He watched as his friend nodded. She didn't look great, if he was honest. He felt a small stirring of concern.

"I did give her an analgesic," Phlox sounded dubious of his own words.

"Not enough to have lasted nearly two days, though," replied the stranger, at which Phlox nodded in immediate agreement.

"It went away entirely after the first shot, and I felt fine until a few hours ago, and now it's back" Hoshi sounded like she had said this more than once. She let out a small grunt of discomfort.

"Sounds like it's time for another shot then," the stranger said, kindly, retrieving a hypospray from the cart behind her.

"I guess it's still just a headache, although a thoroughly peculiar one," Phlox said, throwing up his hands a little. He continued, "You must come back immediately if the pain returns. In fact, I want to see you tomorrow, no matter what." Phlox glanced at the woman, now administering the hypospray to Hoshi, and she nodded.

Hoshi emitted a small sigh, her head rising and her shoulders relaxing in relief. She opened her eyes and immediately spotted Trip.

"Trip!"

Phlox and the stranger looked up startled. She spoke first, alarmed. "Oh, your hand!" She walked quickly towards him, collecting another hypospray as she went.

"Burn?" she asked as she manoeuvred him to the closest bed.

"Who the hell are you?" Trip demanded. His tone was much harsher than he intended, but the stranger's expression remained warm.

"I'm Alice Harper. The new doctor?"

Right, thought Trip. _Obviously_. He'd forgotten all about there being a new doctor. Hell of a thing to forget, he mused.

"Painkiller," Harper said, but paused before administering the hypospray, waiting for an acknowledgement.

Trip, pondering the strange mystique of the pain, wanted to tell her to skip it. He knew that would _raise questions_ however, so he merely nodded. It worked almost at once, a cool iciness flowing into his fingers, the throbbing diminishing and then falling still.

"What happened?" asked Hoshi.

"Plasma relay."

Hoshi screwed her nose up sympathetically, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Nasty. Are you okay? I've got to go back on duty..."

Trip nodded that he was fine. Hoshi gave his shoulder a small squeeze as she left.

Harper had finished scanning his hand and was now opening an irrigation kit. Trip looked past her for Phlox and was surprised to see that he had vanished.

"It's not too bad, but it is second degree in some places. I will need to clean and dress it. Painkiller holding up okay?" Harper asked.

Trip nodded that it was.

"Alright. Let me know if you need more though. Plasma burns don't half hurt."

Why the hell is she telling the chief engineer how much plasma burns hurt? mused Trip to himself. "I'm Commander Trip Tucker, Chief Engineer."

"Not your first plasma burn then," said Harper, correctly guessing what had prompted the introduction.

Trip forced a smile and shook his head.

"Very pleased to meet you, Commander. This will sting a bit..."

"Trip's fine," said Trip, automatically, pondering the stinging sensation of the cool saline on the burn.

"Trip, then."

"Where's Phlox?" he asked her.

Harper looked over her shoulder, seemingly surprised not to see the other doctor there.

"Oh. He was here a moment ago? Would you rather I fetched him?" She did not sound at all offended.

Trip shook his head indicating she should continue. He hadn't meant he wanted Phlox to treat his hand, and thinking about it, he probably preferred a relative stranger. Harper worked methodically and largely in silence, speaking only occasionally to check on his discomfort or announce a new stage of the procedure. She had none of Phlox's overt chirpiness, for which Trip was currently grateful. He seemed to recall she had been trained by a largely Vulcan team, but she did not really have a Vulcan demeanour either, and whenever she did catch his eyes, she offered him a concerned smile.

Trip realised he perhaps should be doing the talking. He would have before. "You're Scottish?"

"Yeah, I am."

"What part of Scotland?"

"Montrose originally, then near Inverness, then Edinburgh."

"Oh." Trip waited for her to ask where he was from, although, if she could pick his Florida accent, he suspected she probably wouldn't. Then, quite unexpectedly, Trip Tucker collapsed into tears.

* * *

Phlox felt a little ashamed of himself. He really shouldn't have left Commander Tucker in the hands of a stranger, particularly given that he had not had a chance to warn Harper. His rationalisation to himself at the time, that he had wanted to update Hoshi's medical notes, had been a flimsy veil. The truth was that he simply did not want to face Tucker today. He'd retreated to his office to hide and to eavesdrop. Fortunately, despite his failure to prepare her, Harper had quickly determined the gist of the story from the Commander's gasped apologies, and performed admirably. She had sat with him for well over an hour, listening, murmuring short affirmations, admiring photographs. By the time Tucker had left, hand treated and bandaged, he had been calm and even offered Harper a small, but genuine smile as he went.

Right now, Harper was reviewing the relevant medical files, to fill in the gaps in the story, and was looking thoroughly depressed.

"You handled that beautifully," Phlox offered, meaning it.

She turned to face him and let out a small sigh, ignoring the compliment. "My God, what a horrible thing." It sounded like all she could think of to say.

Phlox sat down next to her. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have allowed that to happen, unexpectedly, on your third day. I should have at least warned you."

Harper ignored the apology as well. "What a brutal, cruel, utterly unfair thing." She shook her head at Elizabeth Tucker's medical file, seemingly lost for words again.

"I'm sorry, Alice," Phlox repeated.

Harper furrowed her brow a little, apparently registering what he was saying this time. "Don't be. This whole thing must have been awful for you, too. No reason why I couldn't handle it."

"It _was_ awful. Losing that little girl was losing family. I was heartbroken." Phlox was a little surprised at himself, sharing such personal thoughts with a woman he barely knew.

Harper gave him a long, sad look. "I'm so sorry," she offered. Phlox saw her reach as if to touch his hand before apparently changing her mind her mind. The moment slowly passed.

Phlox's Pyrithian bat bustled about her cage, nattering and rustling her wings. Phlox walked over and fed her one of the Treshu worms Harper had brought aboard, to the bat's considerable appreciation.

"You've spoiled her, you know, bringing her these."

"Sure, they love their Treshu worms, don't they?"

Sickbay had been restored to its usual order, although rearranged slightly to accommodate a supply of the more conventional medications which Harper was used to. She had had done most of the arrangement herself. She had something of a knack for it, Phlox thought. A knack both for the logistics of the rearrangement itself, and also in not making changes which would be too disruptive.

Overall, Phlox was quite pleased with how well she was settling in. It _was_ strange to share space with another doctor after so long, particularly one who was a little too senior to really be considered a student and yet still not senior enough to really be a colleague. He'd been practicing medicine for a little longer than she had been alive, and yet by the rules of her world, she was ready to work independently. Phlox was worried about clashes down the road.

Still, Phlox reasoned, what had just happened with Commander Tucker was a solid argument against the original plan of an intern. Moreover, Phlox considered teaching junior doctors more a duty than a joy and someone needing constant supervision would undermine the point in the first place. He had told Archer she was here so he could find more time for his research. This was true, of course, but there was also the other reason.

"You know, Alice, my osmotic eel is marvellous for the treatment of burns." Harper's treatment of Tucker's burns had been perfectly competent, but Phlox had rather hoped she might be willing to employ some of his techniques with his crew.

She smiled, taking it in the proper spirit. "I do know, and I'm looking forward to trying it, but in this particular case... it was a difficult conversation to bring an eel into."

She has a point, Phlox thought. Even after all this time many of the crew were still perturbed by his more outlandish creatures. Phlox could think of at least some members of the crew who would likely much prefer Harper's highly refined pharmaceuticals and astringent-smelling gels. The thought made him a little sad.

Harper cleared her throat. "Doctor? Not terribly professional for my third day... but would you mind if I just ducked out for a coffee? I'm feeling a bit drained."

"Your shift just ended, didn't it?"

"Aye, it did, but I'll stay for a bit so you can work on your research paper some more. Your deadline's coming up and, according to Ensign Sato, the Kreetassans might be in some trouble. We could get busy. I just need a coffee; it'll only take a minute."

Phlox smiled. "Actually, I could use a snack, myself. Let's go together."

The walk to the mess hall passed companionably, filled with discussion of the osmotic eel's reproductive cycle. Beta shift had just started and it was a while before the bulk of alpha shift typically ate their evening meal. Accordingly, the large room was mostly empty except for a short line at the coffee machine.

"It was broken earlier," Chef explained as Harper sculled her coffee and Phlox pondered the wide selection of salads.

"Was it? I bet that caused a fuss..."

"It did. I'm surprised you couldn't here Lieutenant Reed's grumbling down in sickbay!"

"And did the Lieutenant get his coffee in the end?"

"No. He gave up, loudly, ages ago. Only just got it fixed."

Harper, suddenly thoughtful, turned to Phlox. "Actually, Doctor, could I stretch the friendship and ask for five more minutes off?"

"But of course. You are doing me a favour, remember?" Phlox watched curiously as she abruptly got another coffee from the machine.

"Fence to mend. Five minutes," she said by way of explanation, hurrying off holding the second coffee. Phlox turned back to further ponder a Caesar Salad.

* * *

Malcolm Reed still hadn't slept. He had tried again, for a few hours, after finally extracting himself from Hoshi and that damnable distress call. The pulses she'd been so worked up about had been barely audible amongst the static. Moreover, when Malcolm had eventually heard them, on what felt like the hundredth loop, he'd had no earthly idea what they were, 'hand weapon' or otherwise. Hoshi had pouted at him a little, as if he had failed on purpose. In fact, all he had wanted was to identify said pulses as quickly as possible, and get some damn sleep.

And yet, after returning to his quarters, Malcolm had just lain awake. He'd stared at the ceiling. He'd tried reading David Copperfield. He could never remember being so utterly tired, free to sleep and yet so utterly unable to do so. At length, and in some desperation, he'd decided it was a circadian rhythm thing and that he would have to try sleeping, as he did usually, through gamma shift. And, although likely no one would have minded (or noticed), he decided as a point of honour to work beta shift in the Armoury instead of gamma shift, as planned.

Then, the final straw, there had been no coffee. He'd not handled it well, if he was honest.

Trudging to the Armoury, Malcolm knew full well he was too tired to work on anything dangerous. Reluctantly, he had settled down to work on some of that not especially essential paperwork that was nevertheless demanded by Starfleet. The stuff he was three quarters convinced that no one at Starfleet actually read.

The sound of the Armoury door opening made him look up with a start. It took him a moment to place the figure but, when he did, it answered both the question of who she was and how she had managed to wander into the Armoury. To Malcolm's distaste, the computer let medical staff go pretty much anywhere. He supposed, grimly, such programming was essential for emergencies, although for a moment he considered trying to slip in a new subroutine.

She walked over to his desk and unexpectedly placed the coffee she was holding down in front of him. Malcolm regarded it with a slight sense disorientation, his pending declamations on the restricted nature of the Armoury momentarily forgotten. It smelled good.

At length, he asked, "How did you get coffee?"

"There's coffee now."

"And you brought me coffee?"

Harper nodded agreeably.

Malcolm was good at reading people. He understood facial expressions and body language far better than his reserved, slightly awkward, manner suggested. This contrast, he'd reflected in the past, was useful to him. He knew how to press the advantage of being underestimated. Harper, however, was no sort of challenge at all. Her face was unusually expressive, slight muscle twitches seemingly reflecting her every thought. Currently, for example, discomforted bemusement at the lengthening silence was gradually replacing her former expression of utterly _scrutable_ goodwill.

"Why did you bring me coffee?" he asked, voice gravelly.

"I heard you wanted coffee...?"

Malcolm briefly pondered the unwelcome prospect of scuttlebutt, reaching as far as sickbay, about the fact he wanted coffee. Perhaps the scene he had made in the mess hall was worse than he'd been telling himself.

"Aren't you a Doctor? Shouldn't you be telling me to cut back on coffee?"

She appeared to ponder this for a moment before replying. "I have concerns about what that much hypocrisy would do to a warp field."

Malcolm pondered her, not sure how to respond. She _HAD_ brought him coffee, though. "Well, I'm not a warp field specialist but I think it's fine as long you keep your Smug Factor under six."

"That could be a problem in my case. I am a Surgeon, after all."

"And do you ever have a conversation in which that doesn't come up?"

Harper pondered this without any evident rancour. "Occasionally." With that, and a small smile, she turned left.

Malcolm realised he'd forgotten, in the end, to admonish her that the Armoury was restricted. He sipped his coffee. It was black and unsweetened, which was fine. The mug warmed his hands. The door opened again. This time it was Ensign Wendall who, expecting an empty room, startled at the sight of his boss. Wendall dithered indecisively a few meters from Malcolm's desk, holding a PADD.

"Is that for me?" Malcolm asked eventually, causing Wendall's eyes to bulge slightly. Malcolm carefully inventoried his own expression and smoothed it to a better approximation of congeniality. Wendall was a brilliant weapons engineer by Malcolm's estimation, but he was damn nervy and currently, Malcolm noticed with consternation, blushing. Two open books in five minutes, Malcolm thought.

"Um... yes, but... I thought you were working gamma shift, sir?"

"I couldn't sleep, so I took it upon myself to change my own roster. I hope I won't be in your way."

"Should... should you be drinking coffee then? If you can't sleep?" Wendall stammered.

"It's been medically prescribed."

Wendall chuckled nervously at this quip, despite obviously having no way to understand it. Oh brilliant, thought Malcolm. When did I become that sort of boss? "Do you want to give me the PADD Wendall?"

"Not really, sir," said Wendall, doing it anyway.

Malcolm was almost relieved when the contents were only an audiological analysis of Hoshi's distress call pulses. He forced his eyes to focus on them.

"Ensign Sato asked me to deliver it to you personally and..." Wendall trailed off.

"With a message...?"

Wendall nodded anxiously.

"...A passive aggressive message urging me to actually try to identify the ruddy pulses this time, because she can't do everybody's job for them?"

"More or less sir."

"Then you needn't deliver said message, Wendall." answered Malcolm, in what he hoped was a kind voice and was pleased when Wendall visibly relaxed.

"For what it's worth, sir? I think this falls under _her_ job."

Confused, Malcolm looked at Wendall, who, after a pause continued, "…I mean… I don't think hand weapons made those sounds. The waveform is all wrong; it's stupidly inefficient for a weapon, irregular and much too complex. I think they are transmitting information. So… communications job."

Malcolm found himself smiling a genuine smile. By Ensign Wendall standards, this was a touching declaration of fealty and support. "I don't suppose, Ensign, that you would be willing to write a report analysing the waveforms against known hand weapons? I'll help you catch up on your other work later, when I'm not so knackered."

"I'd be pleased to, sir."

After Wendall, much relieved, exited again. Malcolm pondered his words. Transmitting _information_? What the hell…?

* * *

Travis ran his fingers through Fabrecia's black curls. She was silky all over and all tangled up in his legs and her bedsheets. She arched her back at his touch and leered at him, a big hungry smile on her face. My word, Travis thought for himself, I need to stall for time.

"Will you teach me to play canasta?"

Her laugh was even bigger than her smile, full and throaty. I doubt she's ever tittered in her life, Travis thought appreciatively.

"Who told you I play canasta?"

"Your roommate. Hey, we're not expecting her soon, are we?" Travis eyed the door with mock anxiety.

"Alice? Nah, she promised she'd make herself scarce till I go on shift. So, you'll have to be dressed by then, unless you're planning to seduce her too."

"Excuse me, who seduced who? _You_ planned this enough to clear your roommate out in advance."

Fabrecia laughed again. She ran her fingers along his chest, her fingertips electric. " _You_ , apparently, pumped my roommate for embarrassing secrets."

"Your roommate _volunteered_ information. Apparently, she decided to help me out." As he spoke, Travis brushed her cheekbone with his lips.

"Nah, she was helping _me_ out. She's my latest wingman."

"What sort of wingman brings up canasta?"

"She _is_ a pretty bad wingman," Fabrecia chuckled, her hand now running down his back. "She tell you anything non-embarrassing?"

"She said you did triathlons and she told me about your dogs."

"The dogs are a little embarrassing…"

"I like dogs. I like people who like dogs." This was true. Travis did like dogs and the people who were kind to them. He'd like a few dogs one day.

"Do you like me?" Her hand was gently gripping his ass now.

More stalling, thought Travis. "What do you think of _Enterprise_ so far?"

"God, I _love_ her. I _love flying_ her. Racing through the dark at warp factor-fucking-4! There's nothing like it is there?" Her enthusiasm had actually distracted her from Travis's body to both his regret and relief.

"I hope these people are alright though…" Fabrecia said her tone markedly different to a moment ago. Her voice fell further as she continued "…they won't be though will they? They aren't answering us. We are going _so fast_ , but it's not fast enough is it?"

Concerned by her sudden melancholy, Travis put aside his own doubts and answered optimistically. "They might be. Kreetassans are a little idiosyncratic. There could be all sorts of reasons they aren't responding, or not even realise we're expecting it. It doesn't mean that they're…in trouble."

He substituted the last two words instead of 'all dead' at the last moment. It had been more than 24 hours since Commander T'Pol had detected weapons signature and the subsequent increase in speed. The mood was tense. Nobody was sure what they would find when they got there. There was nothing unusual in that, of course, but something about this mission was getting to people. There had been a disastrous briefing that morning. Captain Archer had tried to gamely to generate some team spirit but the meeting had quickly degenerated, nonetheless. In the end most of the time was spent by a tetchy Hoshi arguing with a ragged, report-wielding, Malcolm about the significance of some random noises on the distress call, while Trip and T'Pol silently avoided each other's eyes. Even Archer had an air of defeat about him by the end.

It had been a thoroughly miserable start to Travis's day. Contemplating the pensive, but delectable Fabrecia, he thought about how much she had improved it. He hoped he could cheer her back up. "You'll be on the bridge when the rescue goes down, you know. We are due gamma shift tomorrow."

Just over 24 hours to go, he thought.

Fabrecia looked at him in some confusion. "I thought the Captain wanted you on shift when we arrive? I assumed I'd be getting a different shift."

Malcolm's right, thought Travis. They don't read the manuals. Aloud he said "You'll still be on, as my backup. It's hard to say for sure until we arrive, but chances are I'll fly the rescue shuttlepod while you…"

"Try not to crash a stationary starship?" she said, smiling again.

"…be ready to pilot the ship out of danger," Travis countered.

"Then there I shall be. Poised for heroic withdrawal." She bit her lip and moved in slowly and kissed him.

That, thought Travis, is enough stalling.

* * *

...request assistance...adrift... heavy damage...

...request assistance...adrift... heavy damage...

...static pulse request assistance static pulse adrift static heavy damage static pulse...

...static pulse request assistance static pulse adrift static heavy damage static pulse...

...staticpulse requestassistance staticpulse adrift static heavydamage staticpulse...

 _Boring._

 _LITERALLY boring._

Hoshi almost laughed.

 _Today. They would get there tonight. Finish my shift, ignore Phlox's irritating summons, shower, sleep, get up, rescue mission._

She wanted it to be over, but more, she wanted it to have been over. She wanted to never listen to this fucking distress call again.

 _Fuck you, Malcolm. Fuck you too, Wendall, and fuck your fucking report._

...request assistance...adrift... heavy damage...

staticpulserequest assistancestaticpulse adrift staticheavy damagestaticpulse

What _are_ you?

The headache was so bad that even screaming to herself, in her head, made her flinch.

Even _whispering_.

"…Hoshi?" Archer's eyes were wide with alarm. He was not the only one. Malcolm was rising out of his chair.

Archer, eyes locked on her face, slowly raised his left hand and touched a finger to his mandible, just below his left ear. Hoshi copied him with her right. She looked at her fingertips. They were smeared with blood.

Strange flashes in her peripheral vision were demanding her attention. Something smelled of peach. She could only look at her bloody fingertips.

And then…

* * *

…time had passed.

She wasn't where she was before. She was lying down, she wasn't wearing her uniform, but something made of light cotton. Her headache was gone, a cool emptiness in its place. She squinted against strong lights. Voices.

"ICP is still normal…"

"… Sorry, they put _WHAT_ in her brain? When was this?"

 _Screw-worm_

" um... glucose normal...no fever... white cells normal... electrolytes, calcium normal... liver enzymes normal... we need imaging..."

Hoshi thought she could recognise some of the voices. Where was she? She thought about getting up. Her body didn't answer her.

"Are you sure her ear was bleeding _before_ she hit her head?"

"Yeah, it was bleeding before she collapsed. I'm sure. I saw it before I saw her fall."

 _Captain Archer_. That last voice was the Captain. Worried.

"Aye, alright. We need a cranial imaging series. Help me lift her? Let's get cervical spine too. Did we get prolactin yet? The ECG?"

Scottish. _Harper._

"Is she awake?"

Denobulan. _Phlox._

"Hoshi? Hoshi? Can you hear us?"

Phlox's face. Hoshi tried to respond, or even smile, but she couldn't seem to coordinate herself to do so.

Harper's face appeared as well. "She could be post-ictal? Hoshi, you're in sickbay. You collapsed on the bridge."

 _I did?_ That sounded right.

 _...static pulse request assistance static pulse adrift static heavy damage static pulse..._

"Hoshi? Can you squeeze Liz's hand for me?"

 _Liz? Liz Cutler? Hand?_

Then, there was Liz Cutler's voice. "Nothing."

...pulse...

 _screw worm_

…darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

Hoshi woke later, surprised to find herself in sickbay. She could not remember how she got there. She checked and found she was not in pain and able to move freely,

"Hold on, Ensign. Don't get up. I'll help you sit."

She turned toward Phlox's kindly face. Gently, he helped her to a sitting position, adjusting the bed and placing a pillow behind her. Dr Harper stood a little behind him, wearing a concerned smile.

"What happened?" Hoshi shook her head in confusion. Had she forgotten something?

"Do you know where you are?" Phlox asked her.

Hoshi settled back on her pillow. Clearly, she would have to work for an answer. "Sickbay."

"Do you know why? Do you remember coming here? Waking up before?"

Hoshi's confusion grew. What did he mean?

"It's alright, Hoshi. That's not uncommon." Harper said gently.

Phlox turned to look at the other doctor. He didn't seem annoyed, Hoshi thought, but there was something there she couldn't place. Phlox turned back to Hoshi. "You collapsed on the bridge, Ensign. You bumped your head on your console as you fell. There's a large bruise, but no other damage, you'll be alright."

"Why did I collapse? I remember I was listening to that distress call and then... what happened?"

There was a pause as Phlox and Harper exchanged another long look which Hoshi could not decipher. Eventually, Phlox answered. "Your right ear drum burst. Don't worry, we've repaired it. It caused a small amount of bleeding. When you noticed the bleeding, I believe you had a syncopal episode."

"You think I fainted at the sight of my own blood, you mean?" Hoshi cringed. It was a humiliating thought, something she'd have expected of her long-ago self, the one she'd outgrown. She tried to reassure herself that fainting wasn't voluntary. Bravery was about choices, not biology.

"I _believe_ so, although..." Phlox exchanged another look with Harper before continuing, "...it's only fair to tell you that Dr Harper believes that rather than fainting, you may have had a seizure."

Hoshi's eyes widened at this. Cowardly or sick? Which would I rather?

Phlox continued. "In truth, Hoshi, neither of is certain about our theory as to what altered your consciousness and caused your fall. The reports from witnesses on the bridge are excitable and …somewhat contradictory. Your test results are unremarkable apart from the ruptured ear drum, which, and this is not in dispute, preceded the fall. And, of course, your headache."

Hoshi swallowed. "If it was a seizure what does that mean?"

It was Harper who answered. " _If_ you did have a seizure, and I must stress I'm not at all certain you did, then I think the most likely cause at this point is your previous brain injury."

"The Xindi parasites?"

Harper nodded. "Yes, although I note it's the only episode you've had in over a year and there's been no significant change on your brain scan. _If_ it was a seizure, there is no guarantee that you will ever have another one, so let's not get ahead of ourselves, just get. And Hoshi, I should stress, neurosurgeon is not the same thing as neurologist. Mine is a different opinion, not an expert opinion. I wouldn't be at all surprised if Dr Phlox is right, and it turns out that you just fainted."

Dr Phlox nodded and took over the conversation again. "In any case, we would like you to remain in sickbay for a while. We'll monitor your brain, ECG, and vital signs for any sign of further trouble, just in case, and keep you pain-free for your headache."

"And you're officially excused from the rescue mission," Harper added. "We don't want you worrying over distress call again. Time to delegate, a'right?"

Hoshi smiled in spite of herself. _Silver linings._

* * *

"Did you get any sleep at all?"

"Hmmm, what? Sorry?"

"Malcolm? Did you actually sleep?" Trip asked again, carefully manipulating his soup spoon with his left hand. He was good with his hands, but soup may not, he reflected, have been the best choice. He pondered switching the spoon to his bandaged right hand.

"Erm… yes. Well, I tried, anyway. I _think_ I slept?"

"Maybe you should _try_ again. With me and Hoshi on the bench, you'll most likely be running this thing. Whatever it turns out to be. You've got time for a few hours."

Malcolm was shredding his fish with a fork. His eyes were noticeably red and the light seemed to be bothering him. "I don't feel so bad. Any less than four hours would make it worse rather than better, I think."

Trip thought for a moment. _Am I friend or commanding officer on this?_

"Look, if you're not up to it…"

"I'm up to it. I'm fine." Malcolm said immediately, still steadily deconstructing his meal.

"You might squeeze four in. Four hours."

"I'm fine."

I'm too tired for this, Trip thought, carefully orchestrating another sip of soup.

"How's your hand?" Malcolm asked suddenly.

"Had it re-bandaged. It's looking okay apparently."

"Get the eel this time?"

"Nope. Gel again."

"Small mercies."

Malcolm was staring at his now thoroughly shredded fish. It was unusual for him pay any sort of attention to his food. Trip supposed he was actually thinking of something else. Or micro-napping.

At length he looked up. "Did you see Hoshi while you were down there? In sickbay?"

The significance of the inquiry was not lost on Trip. Malcolm had been all but ignoring Hoshi for what, five months now? "She was sleeping."

"Oh."

"Why'dya care anyway. I thought you'd 'sent her to Coventry'?"

Typically, using an unnecessary Britishism would provoke a sardonic response from Malcolm. This time, he only scowled. "Surely there's some sort of middle ground between being tremendous friends with her and not caring if she's dead."

Trip drew in a breath to steady himself. _Careful._ This was dangerous territory for him. It was all linked together, much too close to the bone. He wasn't sure he could handle this.

"You _were_ such good friends..."

"And it's not MY fault we aren't anymore."

 _Careful. Deep breaths. "_ Yeah, but it kind of is, though."

There was a long pause before Malcolm answered. "I don't want to go over this again." Malcolm's voice was cold and firm. Final.

Honestly, just at this moment, Trip wasn't sorry. Giving up on the spoon, Trip dunked some bread in the soup instead. He chewed it thoroughly.

Malcolm cut his strips of fish into tiny cubes with a butter knife. At length he spoke. "I bet they're all dead. The Kreetassans. We'll get there and they'll all be dead."

Trip answered slowly. "I think they'll be alive. They've just broken down."

Malcolm shook his head. "I doubt it somehow. Why aren't they answering us? Just that one bloody distress call, over and over. I'm stuck with it again, by the way. Completing the analysis."

"You're eating fish."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Alright, fine. My department. I don't know why. We've already reported on it. It's not weaponry. Communications should be doing it."

"I think Baird's too busy fussing with the UT and generally pissing himself. He's been dropped in it."

Malcolm only scoffed in reply. Trip trapped one end of his remaining bread under the heel of his hand and pulled off another chunk with his fingertips. He dunked it in the soup.

Malcolm kept cubing his fish. "Oh look, there's Travis and whatshername."

Trip halfheartedly looked and immediately regretted it. The look passing between Travis and Fabrecia was positively unctuous. He sighed. "Don't wave them over. Or make eye contact."

Malcolm blinked at Trip in surprise, but then nodded, agreeably. "Fair enough. They are a bit much, aren't they? Far too pretty, the pair of them. Makes my teeth hurt."

Trip nodded, although actually it was his heart that Travis and Fabrecia hurt.

Both exhausted, Trip and Malcolm finished their meals in silence.

* * *

"On screen."

They had arrived.

The Kreetassan ship was slowly spinning in space, dim, apparently without power. The beacon transmitting the distress call was a few hundred meters further away, requiring T'Pol to split the viewscreen to display both. At one end of the beacon a bright, blue-tinged light flashed at irregular intervals. The viewscreen's illumination software struggled to compensate. The right hand side of the viewscreen jittered between fulgent blue flashes, and the beacon, in shadow.

Watching, Archer was reminded of footage he had once seen of life in the Mariana trench on Earth; life somehow more alien than much of what he had seen in space. Bioluminescence, in perfect darkness. He saw Reed shielding his eyes with one hand and grimacing. "I think just the ship will do, T'Pol."

With a silent nod, she adjusted the display.

Archer turned to Crewman Baird, who was covering for Sato at communications. "Hail them."

"No answer, sir."

Archer, closing his eyes, inhaled in readiness. He turned to his first officer. " Lifesigns?"

Seconds stretched out. " I am detecting one lifesign, consistent with a Kreetassan. It appears weak but stable."

One.

To Archer, the word struck like lead. One lifesign meant six corpses. He felt no real surprise. He felt he had somehow known, for days, that this would not be a tow truck or taxi mission. He had somehow known he was heading towards a disaster.

 _One._

Archer felt eyes upon him. The gamma shift bridge staff, as well as Mayweather, T'Pol, Reed, and Baird, were all awaiting instructions. The priority was recovery and medical aid for the surviving Kreetassan. The bulk of the investigation could wait for alpha shift.

"Life support? Structural integrity?"

"The vessel appears to be sound. No obvious external damage or damage to major systems. Life support is minimally functional."

Probably a boarding party then, rather than the transporter _._ He assembled a team in his head. Pilot, Doctor and Senior Officer. "Malcolm, Travis, collect the doctor and take a shuttle over. The priority is the medical aid for the Kreetassan, but take some preliminary scans and do what you can to stabilise the ship."

Reed and Mayweather exited the bridge, their gamma shift counterparts replacing them. Baird was, unprompted, messaging sick bay, relaying the situation.

Archer pondered the gamma shift communications and science crewmen loitering near the back of the bridge, wondering if he could ask them to get him some coffee. The six lost Kreetassan lives were weighing on him as he settled uncomfortably into his chair. He was dismayed to find himself hoping that they had been dead for a while. He did not relish the idea of justifying every second lost between here and spacedock.

* * *

As Malcolm, side by side with Travis, entered the staging area, he was surprised to find Doctor Harper already halfway into an EV suit. He briefly considered asking her if she had EV training, but the relatively adept way she was handling the equipment proved adequate answer. Instead, he began climbing into his own suit, annoyed to find it more difficult than usual. He was beginning to think he should have taken Trip's advice of a nap.

"We were kinda expecting Phlox," Travis said mildly.

"Well, you got me, alas. No point sending your CMO into danger if you don't have to, is there? Really, though, he'll be prepping sickbay for surgery or for life support or whatever," Harper replied agreeably.

Malcolm half listened to their continuing mild banter as the three of them finished final preparations and boarded the shuttlepod. He tuned in more closely when Travis asked about Hoshi during pre-flight checks, but Harper, citing confidentiality, did not offer much beyond what he'd already known.

While launching the 'pod, Travis was retelling his version of Hoshi's collapse on the bridge, a slight tremor in his voice. It had been disconcerting, Malcolm had to admit. Her strange, dead-eyed gaze as she stared at her bloody fingers, the way her small frame had convulsed as she fell, head slamming into her console.

"This is the tricky part," Travis said as he matched the rotational velocity of the Kreetassan transport and nudged their 'pod into the docking port. He had made it look far easier than it was.

Sealing his helmet, Malcolm was grateful for the presence of the specialist pilot, he would not have been able to manage the docking himself in his present state. He knew he was struggling; it had been days since he had felt truly rested. For the first time, he wondered if there was something actually wrong with him. On the over hand, he probably _could_ sleepwalk through the evacuating one medical emergency from an essentially stable ship.

Signalling for the others to follow, he stepped out into a corridor strewn with body parts and was forcefully pulled to the floor.

Distracted by the gruesome sight, it took Malcolm a moment to realise why he had fallen. The gravity was much too high. Before he could shout a warning, Harper moved to help him. She cried out sharply and stumbled, falling hard to the floor as the weight of her body, suit, and med-kit suddenly more than doubled. Travis, a step behind, did manage to enter the corridor on his feet but started at the sight of the dismembered corpse and was slammed forcefully to the bulkhead with a heavy thud.

"Everybody freeze!" Malcolm called out sharply.

Breathing heavily, he took a moment to be grateful that nobody had fallen on anyone else. Somebody could have been badly injured. Shaped began to coalesce in the low light. Moving very carefully, he retrieved his scanner, inspecting it carefully and finding it unbroken. He first scanned for lifesigns, finding none but the three of them and the weak Kreetassan signature reading about 30 meters away. Somewhat reassured, he cycled through to a different menu and checked the local gravity reading.

"It's reading well over 2.5g," he announced sharply. "Consider every movement and object dangerous. Move only very carefully. Now, is everyone alright?"

Travis nodded as Harper pulled out her medical scanner, her wrist sagging at its unexpected weight. She carefully scanned Malcolm, then Travis and finally, herself. "We'll all be pretty sore tomorrow, but no major injuries. We're certainly better off than that guy." Carefully, and with effort, Harper pulled herself upright then pointed a scanner at the nearest piece of body.

Travis used the bulkhead to pull himself upright. "What IS that?"

"That," Harper replied sombrely, "was somebody's arm."

Travis flinched. "Was there an explosion?"

Malcolm shook his head not needing to see Harper do the same. He'd already known at a glance this wasn't the work of an explosive force.

Travis, reaching the obvious conclusion, looked nauseated. "Can you tell if he was dismembered before or after he died?"

"Yes," Harper replied, frowning at her scanner.

"Well, are you going to enlighten us?"

"I wasn't planning to, no."

That, Malcolm thought, grimly, was probably answer enough.

"What the hell _HAPPENED_ here?" Travis asked exhaling softly.

Before Harper could reply, Malcolm cut in. "Can you tell _when_ he... died?"

She consulted her scanner. "Erm, well, not in the last two days, but less than a week. I'm sorry; I can't be more precise than that, right now."

"Are you detecting anything that might ...explain this?"

" Erm... no traces of non-Kreetassan DNA, apart from ours, of course. No pathogens showing up on standard scans, no unexpected radiation..."

Malcolm nodded and reached for his communicator, annoyed with himself when its weight surprised him. "Lt Reed to _Enterprise_."

 _"Go ahead."_ Archers tone was expectant.

Malcolm battled through his mental fog to compose his thoughts. "We've encountered a problem. Two problems, actually. Um... there's evidence of... it seems at least one of the Kreetassans died violently 2 or more days ago."

 _"Violence?"_

"On top of that, sir, the artificial gravity is malfunctioning. We're experiencing over 2.8 g. We are holding just inside the airlock."

 _"Copy that. Stand by."_ Archer sounded concerned. Malcolm knew he was about to ask for a recommendation. After about a minute, during which Malcolm tried to think of one, he did just that. _"Can you complete the rescue, Lieutenant?"_

"It might be better to transport the surviving Kreetassan to _Enterprise_ sir, and then look at options for fixing the gravity remotely."

 _"I've just spoken to Phlox, he's reluctant to use the transporter without a medical assessment. Can you get Dr Harper to the patient?"_

Malcolm sighed. He'd been afraid of that. "I believe so, sir. Stand by."

It was like thinking through treacle. Malcolm moved as if to rub the bridge of his nose, forgetting about his helmet. _Careful, deliberate movements!_ he reprimanded himself. He silently cursed Phlox, as well, for good measure.

"Alright. Travis, you stay here with the 'pod. The fewer people moving around, the better. Dr Harper and I will go assess the patient."

Travis looked uneasy about the group separating. Malcolm didn't blame him. His own instincts were screaming at him as well. Looking around warily, he drew his phase pistol. Harper picked up the med kit, struggling to manage its extra weight with just one hand and unable to fit the other on the handle in the bulky EV gloves. She experimented with a few other ways of carrying it, before returning to the first. Malcolm couldn't help her. He would need a hand each for the scanner and phase pistol.

Carefully, they set off down the corridor. Malcolm expected Travis to step back into the lower-gravity 'pod, but instead he stood by the air lock, his own phase pistol drawn, covering them. Malcolm decided not to argue. Harper was walking more than 2 meters behind him, maintaining distance lest one of them should suddenly fall. He heard her breath start to labour slightly. Every step was an effort, not just from the additional weight itself but also from the concentration deliberate movement required. The corridor was poorly lit. As they crept forward the flashlights cast arcs of light over the bulkheads, which were a mottled purplish brown and painted with branching silver patterns. _Trees._

Half way along, a beam of light hit a corner oddly, creating a momentarily threatening shadow, and drawing the aim of Malcolm's phase pistol. Relieved he had managed not to actually fire, Malcolm shrugged apologetically at Harper. She smiled sympathetically and glanced back towards the murdered man behind them, her meaning clear. _SOMETHING had made that mess in the corridor behind them._ Regardless, in the few flustered seconds after the false alarm, Malcolm was forced to conclude that, between the gravity, the minor injuries from his fall, the low light, helmet, and sleep deprivation, he was too compromised to be effective. Regretfully, he moved to remove his helmet.

"Lieutenant! I'm not sure that's a good idea. Sure there are no pathogens or radiation on the scans, but we just don't know what happened here yet. We shouldn't risk exposure."

Malcolm knew Harper had a point, but the extra weight and loss of visibility caused by the helmet was substantial and were about the only thing he was currently empowered to improve. With no way to assess which was the greater danger, he decided to trust the Kreetassan atmosphere. "I realise that. Keep yours on," he said, removing his helmet and placing it on the floor.

Harper grimaced unhappily, but offered no comment as they covered the remaining length of the corridor. Presented with a closed door between them and the injured Kreetassan, Malcolm paused long enough to glance back at Travis, recheck his scanner and roundly lament the lack of available cover. Signalling for Harper to stay well back, he gripped a door handle with his left hand, raising the phase pistol in his right toward the gap, and while keeping his weight balanced, pulled the handle hard, forcing the door open.

Fortunately, the illumination in the room was similar to the corridor, so he could survey it near instantly. More fortunately still, there was nobody there apart from the very obviously injured Kreetassan, lying on the floor, breathing raggedly.

Malcolm motioned to Harper who followed him into the room, moving deliberately but determinedly towards her patient, but taking care to maintain adequate separation. She placed the medkit down carefully and stretching out the hand, now free of its weight. Then, carefully kneeling beside the Kreetassan, she went to work.

"We're alright, Travis." Malcolm said into the comm loop, sagging slightly in relief.

 _"Copy that. Nothing here either."_

When Harper began relaying information to Phlox on _Enterprise_ , Malcolm surmised from her tone and general manner that the Kreetassan was unconscious. He let his attention drift. The ceiling in this room was much higher than any _Enterprise_ , and they were adorned with a beautiful geometric pattern of tiles perhaps representing a night sky. The bulkheads were adorned with the same shimmering forest as the corridor. His helmet off, he could detect the mossy earthen smell he associated with the Kreetassans but it was mixed with an unfamiliar acrid tone. It was impossible to tell what the purpose of the room might have been but by spaceship standards, it was reminiscent of a cathedral.

Allowing half of his attention to following Harper and Phlox's conversation, he learned that Phlox was still anxious about using the transporter on an unstable patient. In reply, Harper argued it would be difficult and dangerous to move the Kreetassan safely in the gravity. After a few more minutes of this, Phlox conceded and the Kreetassan dematerialised, leaving Malcolm and Harper alone in the eerie vaulted forest.

"Will he live?" Malcolm asked Harper.

"He's critical," she shrugged pensively. "Where are the other bodies though? We should check the others are dead, right?"

Malcolm considered the idea and then shook his head. There was no indication there was anyone alive here. They could come back in a better planned expedition to retrieve the bodies. Harper looked uncertain, but nodded, struggling to her feet.

As Malcolm turned to the door, he heard a loud crack then saw a flash of movement in his eye, followed by a sharp cry. He spun around. A panel from the beautiful geometric ceiling had broken away and had struck Harper. It was not very large but the excess gravity had accelerated it dramatically, knocking her to the ground. A long ragged gash in the back of her EV suit was already being plugged with thick silver sealant. For a long moment she didn't move. Despite the near overwhelming urge to run over, Malcolm forced himself to move slowly.

 _"What was that? What happened?"_ Travis voice was clipped and loud over the comm loop.

Harper struggled to her feet, just as Reed reached her. She nodded to him, looking around for her medical scanner. It was on the floor a meter or so away. As she reached for it, she let out a sharp cry.

 _"What happened?"_ Travis asked again sharply.

Malcolm took a breath and answered calmly and as briefly as he could.

 _"Do you need help?"_

"No Travis, stay there for now. Dr Harper, can you walk back to the 'pod?" Malcolm asked, taking in the size of the gash in her EV suit, and considering whether he should have her transported out too. His scanner suggested she had a deep gash on her back and a cracked rib.

"I can get back to the 'pod. Not sure I can carry the med kit, as well though." Her breathing was more laboured now, but her voice was still calm.

"Leave it," he decided.

* * *

"The concern, of course," Phlox explained thoughtfully, "Is that the Kreetassans are not a culturally violent people. And yet there are at least two of the Kreetassans have died a horribly violent death."

"Two?" asked Archer, confused.

T'Pol and Trip were flanking him on either side. Sato and Mayweather were seated on nearby biobeds. Sato had her eyes closed and was holding the bridge of her nose, but Archer thought she looked better than she had in several days. He had been very worried about her since her strange turn on the bridge and he was glad she seemed to be doing better. Mayweather seemed so pleased to be sitting down that Archer decided to ignore that it was a minor lapse of protocol. Because Mayweather had kept his EV suit on for the return trip in the 'pod, he had been the only member of the away team to clear quarantine. Reed and Harper, both exposed to the Kreetassan atmosphere, were being held there pending further scans. The latter was now also caring for the dying Kreetassan, freeing Phlox from his EV suit, and allowing him back in sickbay.

"Yes, Captain, two. I have analysed the scans which Doctor Harper and Ensign Mayweather took of the body parts near the airlock and they represent most of two individuals."

Archer thought he heard Travis gag a bit at the word "most". It was definitely good that he's sitting down.

"Given that," Phlox continued, "We cannot ignore the possibility that the aberrant behaviour arose due to an infectious or toxic agent on the Kreetassan vessel. One to which Lieutenant Reed and Doctor Harper may have been exposed."

Archer thought Phlox sounded vaguely annoyed as if Malcolm and Harper had exposed themselves on purpose, and almost found himself coming to their defence. Harper's exposure was clearly an accident, and even though Malcolm's wasn't, Archer could understand him removing his helmet, even if Phlox couldn't. Presented with dead bodies in a dark corridor, Archer thought he himself would have been more worried about a sudden violent attack than a microbe being missed by the scanners.

Archer turned to the room. "Suggestions?"

"I think we should try to download what we can from the Kreetassan computer." Trip answered immediately, his engagement something of a pleasant surprise to Archer.

"Perhaps we should seek some sort of permission from the Kreetassans before we access their computer?" Archer asked T'Pol, ignoring Trip's irritated scoff. _He's worried about Malcolm_ , Archer realised, again pleased.

"Perhaps, captain," T'Pol replied measuredly. "However, we have not yet been able to confirm the death of the other four Kreetassans. It seems likely the Kreetassans will be highly distressed by this omission."

As she began to elaborate, Trip interrupted her. "Well, I can't say I care too much about that. Not when the alternative is sending more people over into a potentially contaminated environment where the roof is being pulled down on their heads. All that to scan some corpses for deadness? We need to access their computer, check the logs and turn off the damn grav plating before anyone else sets foot on that ship!"

Archer stared at Trip, shocked at his vehemence, as did Phlox and Sato. Mayweather's posture, however, suggested agreement.

T'Pol set her jaw before answering, a chill in her voice. "I am cognizant of the risks, _Commander_. However, the Kreetassans have lost six of their citizens, on a peaceful mission in Earth's territory. The risk of unwelcome diplomatic aftermath is high."

"Seven citizens. The Kreetassan in quarantine will not survive." Phlox put in, unhelpfully.

T'Pol and Trip were glaring, not quite at each other, both clearly furious. Neither offered any commentary of Phlox's pronouncement. Archer looked from one to the other, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. Because it felt like the easiest available option, he then addressed Phlox. "There's no chance he'll survive?"

"I believe not Captain. He is comatose and badly injured. While his respiration has improved slightly since being moved to a lower gravity environment, I am not able to repair the accumulated organ damage. His circulatory system is exhibiting both microhaemorrages and disseminated microthrombus formation, a bad sign in most humanoid species, and we haven't been able to reverse this process either. Death is inevitable and sadly, imminent."

Archer acknowledged this grimly. _Some rescue mission_. T'Pol was right about a diplomatic incident being likely. The Kreetassans were quick to take umbrage at minor, unintended slights. He could not imagine that the response to the unexplained total loss of their doctors and transport crew, a light-year from Earth, would be anything less than outrage.

Having gradually recovered some of her composure, T'Pol filled the silence. "Captain, I propose that I go over to _Treleishkah_ alone and take sufficient scans to confirm the deaths of the remaining Kreetassans. As a Vulcan, I am used to operating in a high gravity environment. My additional strength should allow me to perform more ably than the previous away team and I will be in less physical danger. Afterwards, I will contact the Kreetassa again. I will advise them of the crew losses and request permissions to remotely access _Treleishkah_ computer."

"Let me think about it T'Pol." Archer replied, at length, ignoring Trip's expression.

T'Pol's brow furrowed slightly "Captain. The Kreetassans are expecting a report. A delay is..."

"Let me think about it."


	4. Chapter 4

Fabrecia's golden body shuddered. To Travis's fascination, goose bumps appeared down the length of her legs. He caressed them with his fingers. He'd sought her out as soon as her shift ended, the prearranged alpha shift reliever already seated at the helm of the utterly stationary _Enterprise_. He hadn't really planned to end up in bed with her again, but in bed they were, in her quarters again as Harper was indefinitely delayed in quarantine.

"Oh God. An arm?"

"Yeah. She was completely deadpan with it too. 'That was somebody's arm'."

Travis's mocking Scottish accent wasn't very good, but Bree laughed anyway and stroked his hair.

"Ick. Poor Travis."

Kissing her again felt like the thing to do. He tasted the last remnants of her honey flavoured lip gloss. A memory of Gannet, on a picnic blanket, traces of ice-cream on her lips, appeared unbidden before him and was forcefully banished.

"So we only saved one?" Fabrecia asked, and Travis sighed. She looked so sad it was hard to tell her the last Kreetassan was dying. It was her first mission, her first week.

For a moment her huge eyes swam, and then she blinked her eyelashes wet. Her voice was melodic, pensive. "You know. All I ever wanted to do was fly. Even when I was a little, I'd watch the birds. I always had these dreams where I'd figured it out and I would go soaring over my house, over the trees to the city. And it would be so obvious how to do it. I could never believe it had taken me so long to figure it out. And I'd feel so happy, like I'd come home to the sky. And then I'd wake up. Night, after night. And I'd never remember it was a dream until I did."

He pulled her closer to him. She was so lithe, so alive. So _NOT_ bloodied remnants in a corridor. "You're so beautiful," he told her. "I can't believe I've only known you five days."

She laughed and mock pouted, shaking away her sadness. "Are you calling me a fast woman, sir?"

"Don't call me sir off duty. And yeah, you're pretty fast... Warp 4.8 wasn't it?"

"I'll have you know, I got it above Warp 4.83 my third night. And, god Travis, it was such a thrill. A week ago, I'd never travelled faster than Warp 2. I just wish we'd gotten here in time for somebody, you know?" She put her head down on his chest.

Travis stroked her hair, his fingers catching in a tangle among the curl. "Me too."

* * *

"Time of death, 0942 hours"

Malcolm felt no great surprise. Harper had been narrating the Kreetassan's final hours for a while now. This had presumably not been for Malcolm's benefit, so he supposed she was recording her notes, relaying them down the intercom to sickbay where a computer would log each grave pronouncement. Among the acronyms and medical jargon he'd been able to discern the coming inevitability of this final note.

He watched Harper with dull fascination. She was standing in profile to him so he could see neither her full face, nor the ugly gash down her back, the upper edge of which extending well above the top of her tank top. Phlox, clad in a hazmat suit, had stitched it up before leaving. She was perfectly still, staring intently at her now-dead patient. She did not seem the type to pray, but she was clearly doing something, some ritual. He thought he could see her lips moving.

Whatever it was finished. She turned, collected a bottle of water and sat opposite Malcolm, sipping quietly. She was not quite looking at him, perhaps to make it easy for him to keep ignoring her, if he wished. He reflected on the strangeness of quarantine. She'd been exposed to the Kreetassan atmosphere for mere seconds before her suit sealed and yet here she was, in the same boat as him, whatever boat that was.

He saw she was watching him watch her. He should probably say something. He sifted among the available topics.

She beat him to it. "Could be worse, you know." She had the same half smile as from the coffee thing.

"We could be him?" he asked, indicating the body of the dead alien. What's his name? he wondered, trying to recall _Treleishkah_ 's crew manifest.

"I meant it could be worse, because _YOU_ could _ME_ , actually."

"Oh?"

The other half of her smile appeared, as she replied. "Well, if we do end up in a crazed virus-induced death battle, you're definitely going to win it."

He'd not thought of that. "Yes. I will."

She laughed at that, although it was almost inaudible. "There, you see? Could be worse."

"Do you think it's likely? The virus-induced death battle?" he asked her.

"Phlox will be here to supervise the autopsy in a minute. We'll know more after that. No death-match viruses on standard scans though. This could just be..." she trailed off, seemingly not having words for what such violence as that might be. Uncaused. Reasonless. _Senseless_.

"Will it bother you? The autopsy?" she then asked him, suddenly, as if unaware she had not finished her previous sentence. She was looking at him with clear concern.

Malcolm was somewhere between insulted and nonplussed. "I'll be fine," he replied and felt exasperated when she looked nakedly sceptical in response. _New people! Bloody hell, but they're infuriating!_

There was a noise, like a tapping on glass at the edge of his awareness. Harper was gesturing with her head towards the window to the quarantine observation window. "Think he wants you," Harper whispered.

Malcolm looked and saw an obviously irate Trip Tucker waving him over. In the small space, Malcolm had to turn sidewise to fit past the gurney with the dead alien. _Mitremben_ , he remembered suddenly. _Treleishkah_ 's first officer. Twisting through the space made his sore joints and muscles ache. Better get an analgesic before my death-match, he thought.

"You've got to talk her out of it. Or convince the Captain. Shouldn't YOU go back over there? You're contaminated anyway."

Malcolm flinched. "Trip, I don't know what you're..."

"T'Pol! Going to _Treleishkah_!"

Malcolm badly wanted a nap. He wondered if it would be possible to sleep through an alien autopsy being carried out two metres away. He summoned the will to answer his friend. "Why is T'Pol going to...?"

Finally realising that Malcolm had no idea what he was talking about, Trip proceeded to explain in, frankly, patronising tones. Malcolm was suddenly glad he was so tired, or, he had no doubt, this would be making him lose his temper. He shot a quick glance at Harper, who was staring off into the middle distance. She was pretending not to listen, which, Malcolm supposed, was the best she could be expected to manage considering Trip's volume and the small space.

"I'm just not sure what you expect me to do from in here..." he tried, mildly. Actually, theoretically at least, Malcolm thought T'Pol's plan made a lot of sense. Although, her going alone was...

"Just fix it! Stop her!" Trip snapped before brusquely stalking off.

"Right," said Malcolm, to empty space.

* * *

Jonathan Archer morosely considered the bottle of bourbon. The trouble with being Captain was that you were never really off duty. And he certainly wasn't right now even if nothing much was actually happening.

The rescue mission itself had already ended in failure, with only the investigatory and diplomatic parts left to fuck up. T'Pol was _insisting_ that they needed Kreetassan permission to start the investigation proper, and insisting that they would need to formally confirm the deaths of the remaining Kreetassans before they could request it. Equally intransigent, Trip was _insisting_ that they access _Treleishkah_ 's computer logs and attempt to remotely disable or reset it's grav-plating before sending another away team.

Apart from that stalemate, he had two crewmembers in quarantine, his exo-linguistics expert in sickbay, and presumably, Kreetassan families anxiously awaiting news. News which he already effectively had, but was not sharing. Instead, he was waiting in his ready room for an autopsy report and futilely contemplating bourbon. He wondered if Mitremben had children.

"Archer to Phlox."

 _"Yes, Captain?"_

"How's it going?"

There was a short pause as Phlox composed a response. _"We are proceeding as fast as we can Captain. The initial autopsy suggests that the cause of death was due to severe traumatic injury, however toxicological, microbiological and histopathological tests are not yet complete. The quarantine is complicating the procedures."_

In other words, the body was _inside_ quarantine and the equipment for analysing it was _outside_. Without knowing what, if anything, they needed to exclude from _Enterprise_ , each sample required meticulous collection and laborious decontamination before Phlox could even start. The only thing in their favour was that there was a doctor in quarantine, so Phlox only needed to handle one end.

"How are they holding up?"

 _"Who?"_

"Malcolm and Harper," Archer replied patiently.

 _"They are tired."_

"What about Hoshi?"

 _"I have a few quick tests to run, I expect to release her late today. I believe she is fine."_

"Okay doc, keep me posted."

Closing the comm-link, Jon settled back in his chair. It didn't look like the autopsy results would be available soon enough to help him make a decision about sending T'Pol to _Treleishkah_. Suppose one of the Kreetassans had murdered and mutilated the crew without an external cause? If they had, what then happened to them? Had it been Mitremben who had done so, presumably being mortally wounded by one of his victims in the process? Or did the answer lie with one of the other, as yet unseen, people, dead on that ship?

That was not the question for now though. The question for now was, _is it safe?_ Despite the minor injuries sustained by the first, unprepared, away team, Archer thought it probably was, at least for T'Pol. She could handle the gravity, maintain a sealed EV suit. She could locate the bodies, take a few quick scans and then they could move to the next step.

And yet, Archer realised, he wanted to side with Trip, keep his people away from that ship and link with the computer or at least try. Risking people, his people, for courtesy felt wrong. And he _WANTED_ to side with Trip because Trip had been apathetic, about nearly everything for so long. But, as much as Jon longed to agree with his friend, he did not.

"T'Pol, come to my ready room, please."

* * *

"Anything?" Phlox asked.

The lights strobing in Hoshi's eyes were certainly annoying her, but nothing else. "Nope." The flashing, mercifully, stopped.

"Well, you passed."

Hoshi would have expected Phlox to sound more pleased at this. Around them various diagnostic machines hummed quietly. Something, the bat in fact, chittered.

"So I can go?"

"Yes, but remember to come back the second that..."

Hoshi nodded impatiently. They'd discussed all this before beginning the battery of tests trying to induce a seizure. Phlox wanted to repeat them later sometime after depriving her of sleep for a time, but that would have to wait until the current crisis was resolved. He'd relayed the results down to Dr Harper, still in quarantine with Malcolm, and Hoshi had been released and cleared for duty, for now. Hoshi found she was more than a little worried about Malcolm being in quarantine, but Phlox and Harper seemed to consider it nothing more than a necessary nuisance. Nothing about their long comm conversations regarding the Kreetassan's autopsy, and Hoshi's discharge, betrayed any anxiety from either party. So Malcolm would probably fine. It was his own damn fault for taking his helmet off anyway.

Remembering to thank Phlox, Hoshi strode out of sickbay, unconsciously stretching once she was out the doors. She felt better than she had in days. She had already showered, and Travis had dropped by with a fresh uniform, so Hoshi headed directly to the bridge. She nodded to Travis and headed over to the communication console where Baird was working, distractedly.

"Catch me up and then go get some sleep." Hoshi told Baird, figuring he must have been working since yesterday afternoon.

Baird, greeting her with evident relief, began recounting the events of the last day, most of which Hoshi already knew. Half-listening to a summation of the first away mission, T'Pol's second away mission, just launching, and translation of preferred Kreetassan autopsy procedures, a thought suddenly occurred to Hoshi.

"What about the distress call?"

Baird looked at her blankly, causing Hoshi to sigh inwardly. It was partly her fault, of course. Her disinclination to delegate, when it was so much easier to handle things herself, meant that her staff did not always take initiative. It was with leadership in mind that she said, "We should get another recording of the distress signal. There might still be SOME static of course but we are right on top of the beacon now."

Baird looked remorseful. "I should have thought of that. Sorry. I'll do it now."

Hoshi almost let him, but remembering how long he had been on duty she instead smiled, said she would handle it, and dismissed him. The wave form of the looped call was displayed on her monitor, a thin undulating green line. She was surprised to see her hand shake as she reached for her ear bud, her stomach twisted around a splinter of faint dread. The ear bud felt cold in her ear.

She did not feel herself fall.

* * *

It was barely out of his mouth before he regretted it, grimly adding another name to his mental list of people to apologise to later.

The offending crewman skittered away shooting a jittery look back toward Trip just before disappearing around the corridor. Trip tried to remember his name. _Wendall possibly?_ One of Malcolm's anyway. Had walked right into him.

Trip stood still as the residual discomfort from the impact dissipated. He then pondered a direction. There were too many things pulling on his time.

 _Go to the bridge and watch and monitor T'Pol's away mission?_

 _Engineering to tackle whatever Lt Hess hadn't?_

 _Mess hall and quell his growing hunger?_

 _Go to Decon to yell at Malcolm again?_

 _Apologise to Malcolm?_

 _Climb back in a service tube?_

Why was it so hard to make a decision?

Bridge, he settled at last. A few passing heads twitched slightly. He must have spoken aloud.

Trip walked there in a few minutes. The coffee he was holding was cold but he was drinking it anyway, mainly to empty the cup. Baird hurried past as he entered the bridge. Trip nodded to Travis and tried to catch Hoshi's eye but she didn't look up from her screen. On the viewscreen, Shuttlepod two arched towards _Treleishkah_ 's docking port.

"Who's piloting?" he asked Travis, pleased his voice sounded level and not overly interested.

"Ensign Boschmann," Travis answered.

Trip grimaced into his tepid coffee. There was even something gooey about the way Travis said Boschmann's name. He looked over to tactical, hoping to share an eyeroll with Malcolm about the smitten Travis, but of course he wasn't there. "How long is Phlox going to keep them in quarantine?"

After a moment spent muddling through the abrupt conversation change, Travis answered. "Not much longer, I think. All the scans have been negative. I think the doctor just wants to finish up the tests from the autopsy first. It's all just a precaution anyway."

Trip nodded, most of their attention was on the now docking Shuttlepod 2. He turned to Travis. "She's not bad, your girlfriend. You hardly did better yourself." He gave Travis a long look causing the Ensign to shift uncomfortably.

"I wouldn't call her my girlfriend..." Travis trailed off, presumably as the exact nature of their relationship was not really appropriate Bridge conversation.

T'Pol's voice, announcing a successful docking, and her intention to board _Treleishkah_ , piped over the Bridge's speakers. Trip needed to close his eyes for a moment at the sound of it.

Jonathan Archer walked out of his ready room onto the bridge. When he caught Trip's eyes, his expression was apologetic. "Hey, Trip."

Trip smiled thinly in reply, not really angry anymore. Jon, after a glance at the viewscreen turned to survey the bridge. Trip saw his brow furrow slightly.

"Where's Baird gone?"

"Hoshi relieved him," Travis answered, eyes still on the viewscreen.

"Then, where's Hoshi?"

The Captain's question caused both Trip and Travis to turn around. At first communications appeared empty, but after a few steps Trip saw her and broke into a run.

* * *

Phlox could not shake a feeling of disquiet. He was going over the final blood and psychological tests prior to authorising the release of Lieutenant Reed and Doctor Harper from quarantine. There had been no unexpected results on any of the tests, and they had developed no abnormal symptoms. There had been no threat identified from the autopsy. The psychological tests were, naturally, fascinating, as was Reed's escalating irritation with them, but they identified no cause for concern. Phlox knew he should be satisfied with releasing them from what had only ever been a precautionary quarantine.

And yet, he wasn't.

He had an inexplicable and unfamiliar feeling that he was missing something important. Phlox had a long career in medicine. He had met many sorts of excellent doctors, including those that leaned heavily on an ineffable and mysterious clinical intuition. But he himself had never been one of them. He thrived on evidence and probabilities, on findings of fact, on what he saw and knew to be true. He could allow some room for what he thought of as _the small voice_ , that which recognised subtle patterns and tiny details and amplified them from the subconscious to the conscious. He could not deny that this small voice had saved many lives under his care. But he was a man of evidence, not of instinct.

He was going over the tests, he realised, in search of some small crag of evidence to which his instinct could cling. His instinct said something was wrong on his ship, with his crew, and he wanted to keep everything as it was until he could figure it out. The evidence said, it was time to let Reed and Harper out.

And yet _the small voice_ whispered.

"Doc!" It was Ensign Mayweather, carrying the unconscious, rhythmically convulsing Hoshi Sato. He lay her on the nearest bed as Phlox hurried over, grabbing a seizure arresting hypospray from a crash-cart as he past. He was about to chastise Mayweather for riskily and needlessly transporting someone having a seizure, but changed his mind when Captain Archer, looking haunted, followed Mayweather and Sato into sickbay. The first aid lecture could wait.

"How long has she been like this?" Phlox asked instead.

"We don't know. We didn't notice at first."

Archer was clearly distressed by this fact, causing Phlox to offer a quick, reassuring smile, as he administered a dose from the hypospray and set a medical scanner to record Sato's cerebral electrical activity. "Could it be more than five minutes?"

"It could be five...?"

Phlox's unsuccessful smile fell away when the seizure, now confirmed by the scanner, did not abate. A second dose from the hypospray was no more successful. He retrieved a second line therapy and tried a dose of that. There was no immediate effect, but the second line drugs could take longer. Mayweather and Archer looked on silently.

"I need to stop the seizure." Phlox explained to them, probably needlessly. Not quite ready to give up on the second line drugs, he quickly set up some more monitoring equipment around Hoshi and, using a lancet, collected enough blood to repeat the glucose and electrolyte tests he had done less than an hour ago when discharging her. Hoshi body temperature was rising. If the seizure did not stop soon, he would have to anaesthetise her.

Knowing this was more likely by the minute, Phlox paged for a medical technician to assist. He briefly considered releasing Dr Harper from quarantine but decided against it. He would not risk making that decision in the heat of a moment.

* * *

"T'Pol to Ensign Boschmann..."

It was no good; her transmitter had obviously been broken in the accident. Experimentally, T'Pol tried to extend the arm not pinned under the ceiling panel. It did not move much and intense pain screamed back at her, making her dizzy.

She had made a mistake. After scanning the four sets of Kreetassan remains in the aft of the vessel she should have returned to the shuttlepod and the waiting Ensign Boschmann. Instead she had walked past the airlock to the fore of the ship to retrieve the abandoned medkit. She could no longer remember why it had seemed like a good idea.

She regretted selecting an inexperienced pilot. She could not predict what Fabrecia Boschmann would do.

 _How long would it be before the comm silence alarmed her? What would she do when it did? How long until help comes? How badly injured am I?_

She tried her arm again, netting the same response. The med kit would be out of reach, in any case. Her helmet hadn't buckled, protecting her head, and she believed that her neck and upper thorax had been partly shielded from the impact by the air supply on her back. The air had been breached and was now emptying. She was breathing room air. She was unsure about her lower chest, abdomen and legs. There was very little pain, but that was not necessarily encouraging. She thought she could move her legs, but it was hard to be sure. As she clearly could not free herself, it would be best not to struggle, she knew, but it was surprisingly hard to stop.

"Stop it," she told herself. "You _CAN_ breathe."

Commander Tucker, _Trip_ , had been right. She had succumbed to exactly the same type of accident that the first away team had. The ceiling panels, tessellating geometric stars, had looked secure when she entered the room. She had taken care not to pass under those adjacent to the ones which had fallen and struck Dr Harper. She had kept her eyes on them, looking for signs of buckling.

And she _HAD_ seen. She had heard a bang as a panel fell on the other side of the room and then another. Even as she moved back to the door, panels above her had started buckle. She had not moved fast enough. She had badly misjudged the danger and it seemed so obvious in retrospect.

"T'Pol to Ensign Boschmann..."

 _Illogical,_ she chided herself. You _KNOW_ the transmitter is broken. Her voice had sounded gravelly and weak.

 _Elizabeth_

Her vision was starting to blur. She waded through her remaining seconds of consciousness. What should she do? What could she?

 _Trip_

"T'Pol to..."


	5. Chapter 5

"Those tests can't possibly be useful".

To his amazement, Malcolm actually felt a little better. It had turned out that he could take a fairly refreshing nap in close proximity to an active autopsy, even one which required an inordinate amount of comm chatter and the fastidious preparation samples for transfer to un-quarantined areas. Alice, on the other hand, looked dreadfully tired, although she still offered a politely inquisitive look in response to his comment.

"I mean who is going to answer "yes" to some of those questions? _Are you currently filled with homicidal rage?_ "

Alice smiled and shook her head, replying. "That wasn't on there."

"I'm pretty sure it was. Something like that anyway." Malcolm said, sipping some water.

"No, it was something like _Are you currently feeling enraged by the people around you?_ "

Malcolm smiled, answering, "No more than usual..."

"Thanks. I think." Harper turned her attention back to Mitremben's body. T'Pol had supplied Phlox with a data-file detailing Kreetassan funeral rites and Harper, since the autopsy concluded, had been restoring the remains as best she could. "I THINK silk suture should be okay with them. Lucky we've even got any really..." she had said, frowning absently. Malcolm watched her with idle interest. He always enjoyed watching people do things which they were good at, no matter how dull or arcane the skill itself was. At the moment he found it interesting that, despite looking utterly shaky and wretched otherwise, Harper was able to keep her hands so steady, weaving the long suture thread, in a complex, practiced motion.

Malcolm's attention was pulled away by a frantic tapping at the glass. It was Trip again, but this time rather than angry, he looked pale and wide eyed. With a sinking feeling, Malcolm walked over to the window as quickly as he could manage, ignoring his still aching joints.

From Trip's expression, this was not quickly enough. "You have to go back over!" Trip said frantically, without the slightest of overtures.

"What? Go back where? _Treleishkah_?"

"Boschmann just called, she's lost contact with T'Pol."

Malcolm reeled, almost physically seasick, as he tried to catch up. No one had told him a second away mission had launched. The pounding in his head, and with it the feeling of thinking through treacle, had abruptly returned. "T'Pol's on _Treleishkah_...? And uncontactable...?"

"Yes, dammit! _YOU_ need to go over there now. Boschmann's as green as grass. I _KNOW_ something's wrong." Trip was clearly both furious and also working hard to keep his temper, giving him a strange frenetic energy. And, though Malcolm was in no state to pin it down, there was something odd about the way he said he knew.

"What does the Captain say?" Malcolm asked, shaking his throbbing head, trying to clear the fog. Behind him, Harper has stopped stitching and was unabashedly listening, chewing her lip.

Trip bashed his bandaged hand against the glass in frustration. It clearly hurt, but he paid little attention to it. "The Captain and Travis took Hoshi to sickbay."

"Sickbay?" Malcolm's stomach dropped unpleasantly. _What the hell is going on?_

"She had another seizure." Trip explained impatiently.

"Ensign Sato had another seizure?" Harper interrupted, her eyes wide with alarm.

"Phlox is handling it!" Trip shouted back at her, his face reddening.

Harper blinked for a moment, studying Trip. Then she put down her needle-holder she had been using to suture Mitremben's remains and cautiously approached the window, as well.

Setting aside his concern for Trip's well-being, Malcolm had a job to do. The problem was he had no idea whether he'd been issued an order or not, and crucially, if the Captain even knew about this. Should he try to contact Archer himself? He could think of no tactful way of doing so. "Is Ensign Boschmann bringing her 'pod back or did you want me to take the other one?" he asked, taking care to speak levelly.

Trip's expression was suddenly blank. Malcolm realised his friend, currently his commanding officer, hadn't thought that far ahead. He needed to keep him talking, slow him down. At the same time, however, he felt a small kernel of urgency in his own mind. What had happened to T'Pol?

"Is there a second docking port on that ship?" Harper asked.

Malcolm silently willed her to stop talking but, surprisingly, Trip answered her civilly, "Yes. There's an auxiliary port. Take the other 'pod. It'll be faster. I'll get Travis."

Without another word, Trip hurried off in the direction of sickbay, where Malcolm rather hoped he would find the Captain as well as Travis. Behind him, Harper started throwing what unused medical supplies she could find into a small case. Malcolm looked at her in confusion. "What are you doing? You aren't going..."

The expression she returned was equally confused. "Why wouldn't I be going? Commander T'Pol might be injured…"

" _You're_ injured!"

She looked incredulous, but did pause her packing. "Not badly... I think I was supposed to go? It felt like I was included in the order to go? I got that sense?"

Malcolm tamped down his annoyance. For all he knew, she was right. He's been feeling better just a few short minutes ago, he realised. It felt very distant now. He shrugged at Harper.

She tentatively gathered the last of the supplies before following him back down to the 'pod.

* * *

By the time Travis arrived at Shuttlepod 2, Malcolm had all but finished the pre-flight checklist. As he entered the 'pod, Malcolm and Alice looked at him with alarm. This was probably, he realised after a few seconds, because he was not wearing an EV suit.

"Phlox said to say you're not quarantined anymore," he said, by way of explanation, mainly to Alice, who merely nodded and returned her attention to raiding the shuttlepod first-aid kits.

"I don't suppose he sent you down with more supplies...?" she asked, surveying the kit with displeasure."...Maybe I should run and get some more?"

"Actually, I'd think we'd better get going as fast as possible. Commander Tucker is..." Travis trailed off. He was not going to describe his friend and commanding officer as "freaking out" in front of a relative stranger. Watching Malcolm's face, he saw that the lieutenant had caught his intention anyway.

The scene Travis had just left in sickbay had been strange. Tucker had been frantic and frankly unprofessional and yet Archer had been clearly unwilling to call him out, never once pulling rank, or intervening at all, when Tucker had all but chased Travis out of sickbay. Indeed, Archer had been barely paying attention, focused almost entirely on Hoshi.

"Travis, what's wrong?" Malcolm asked him, concerned, as he surrendered the pilot's seat to him.

 _Everything_ , Travis realised, but he was unwilling to say so out loud.

"Phlox had to put Hoshi into a coma," Travis replied, instead.

Malcolm, alarmed, looked at Alice. "Erm...it would probably have been to stop her seizure immediately. It's dangerous to let a seizure continue too long." she said. Her voice had a soothing reassuring quality but Travis saw her brow furrowed in concern and her eyes darting to the launch bay stairs. She clearly wanted to go to sickbay.

Malcolm stiffened slightly. "Alright, people. One disaster at a time. Let's go find Commander T'Pol," he said levelly, and squeezed Travis's shoulder slightly, as he took his seat.

The alternative docking port on _Treleishkah_ was an even more difficult target than the first had been. Even without the spinning motion of the drifting ship, Travis still might have struggled negotiating the narrow, oddly angled, approach. He exhaled audibly as the 'pod nestled into place and the docking clamps engaged.

They were quite a distance away from the other '

pod. Travis had seen Fabrecia's small form waiting in Shuttlepod One as they had arched past her.

Malcolm hailed her now. "Lt Reed to Ensign Boschmann. We are preparing to board _Treleishkah_. Can you confirm your position?"

Fabrecia's voice was high and tinny on the comm-link. "I'm in the 'pod, sir. The other 'pod. My 'pod. Commander T'Pol told me to wait here for her and when she didn't report in I hailed _Enterprise_ and THEY told me to stay put as well..."

Malcolm cut her off her rapid, rambling speech. He had pulled up a schematic of _Treleishkah_ 's single, sprawling habitation deck. A pinging light marked their own location. Malcolm absently marked the other 'pod's location with his finger. "Thank you, Ensign. Do you know Commander T'Pol's location?"

"Not exactly, sir, no."

"Can you give me your best guess, Ensign?"

Fabrecia sounded terrified, Travis thought, wishing it was appropriate to comfort her. At least Malcolm was speaking kindly.

"Her last communication was something about recovering a medkit."

Medkit? Travis was confused, but Malcolm and Alice locked eyes. It obviously meant something to them. Alice extended a finger to indicate a large room on the schematic. Travis couldn't read the Kreetassan label. It was a long way from them.

"Those ceiling panels weren't sound" Malcolm said, sounding noticeably more worried than a moment ago.

"I think I should go, then," Alice said, her tone firmer than her words.

Malcolm nodded. "We'll both go. No suits. The extra weight isn't worth it. We'll keep an open comm link, and loop Boschmann in, as well. Travis, make sure you keep talking to her, she sounded a little squirrelly."

Travis nodded. "Ensign Boschmann, we're setting up an open comm loop. Are you receiving?"

"Yes, Ensign Mayweather, I can here you." There was naked relief in her voice.

* * *

Jonathan Archer strode through the corridor, heading to the bridge. His head was spinning. He _WANTED_ to lean against a bulkhead, maybe sink into a crouch. He was even a little worried that he _NEEDED_ to. But he couldn't. _Mustn't_. Things were beginning to spiral out of control. When he'd followed Travis to sickbay, they'd lost contact with T'Pol. Then, before Archer had had a chance to even think, Trip had ordered Travis and Malcolm on some cockamamie, half-baked rescue plan.

There could be no _leaning on bulkheads_. Captain Jonathan Archer would get back on top of things, or, he would fall down trying.

It was all Jon could do not to scowl at the view screen as he entered the bridge. By now, he hated the very sight of _Treleishkah_. Looking around, he was surprised to find no command officers on the bridge at all. Science, communication and the helm were empty. Reed's pet weapon tech was at tactical and some junior science staffers were hovering uncertainly at the back of the bridge. Tucker had evidently not come back here after chasing Travis out of sickbay.

Archer wondered who Trip had given command of the bridge to. He suspected it might have been no-one at all. Grimly, he decided not to ask. If he _KNEW_ rather than _SUSPECTED_ he would have to do something about it, perhaps something official, and he did not want to go there. Not yet. He did not know what Trip would do if Archer forced things to a head, he did not know what T'Pol would do. And now, Hoshi was sick. Sick enough to be in a coma right now, sick enough to have Phlox worried.

Jon needed to keep his staff together and if it meant letting the little things slide he would. But, he thought, a failed rescue of a diplomatically precarious species and a potential crisis with an away team were not little things. He would talk to Trip once T'Pol was safely back.

"Report," he ordered Ensign Wendall, who had the misfortune of being the most senior person on the bridge.

The relief on Wendall's face at the sight of Archer fell away. He turned bright red and did not actually say anything.

Jon was very tempted to lose his temper, but instead he carefully tensioned his voice and said "I need a report on the status of the away mission."

Gulping, Wendall complied.

It wasn't good. Five people and both shuttlepods were over there. T'Pol was still out of contact, unfound, meaning three out of five of those people were alone. And, there were no more 'pods on _Enterprise_ , if events got worse.

"Can someone check on the status of the transporter?" Archer asked, without turning around, of the small gaggle of science staffers. He rolled his eyes when he heard one of them, he didn't turn to see which, bustle off the bridge. He'd meant check from a bridge console, not actually go down there. _Was everybody new?_

"We have communications?"

Wendall nodded. "Yes sir. Lt Reed and both shuttlepods are in an open comm loop. We can patch into it."

Archer nodded, this was better. At Wendall's nod, he said. "You okay over there, Malcolm?"

 _"Yes, sir."_ Reed sounded tense. _"We suspect Commander T'Pol may have gone to a large room at the fore of the ship. Harper and I are heading there now."_

Archer turned to Wendall. "Suspect? We can't locate the Commander with our scanners?"

"There is interference sir. We have her lifesign and it does seem to be in the fore of _Treleishkah_ , but I can't isolate it to a specific room from here."

 _Of course there's interference._ Jon scowled at _Treleishkah_ again. "Alright Malcolm, find T'Pol and get everybody out as fast as you can. We need to rethink this whole damn thing".

Archer hadn't really meant to say the last part aloud.

Malcolm's acknowledgement, while perfectly proper, carried a clear subtext of ' _no kidding'_.

* * *

Fabrecia Boschmann's eyes were huge. She was standing just inside her 'pod, looking out into the corridor, eyes sliding over the gruesome scene there and away again.

Malcolm tried to give her a reassuring smile as they trudged past her. He was thoroughly sick of _Treleishkah_. Sick of walking in too much gravity. Sick of being shouted at by Trip. And he was worried about Hoshi, that she wouldn't wake up. He was trying to remember the last time he had spoken to her, knowing that it would have been terse and awkward. A heavy stone of regret was forming in his chest. And, more immediately, he was worried about T'Pol. Trapped, with a broken comm was the best case scenario he could think of. Overall, Archer's _"find her and get out"_ seemed outlandishly, enragingly, _typically_ optimistic.

None of this was Boschmann's fault, though. She had that look that junior officers get when they are convinced that the current clusterfuck is somehow their fault and someone is about to shout at them. "Good work, Ensign. Hang in there," he said. He thought he sounded forced and awkward, but Boschmann looked palpably relieved.

Behind him, Alice paused. Without asking, Malcolm knew she was considering collecting the first aid kit from Boschmann's shuttle. The woman was clearly a magpie for collecting medical supplies, previously scavenging decon, the launch bay and Travis's shuttle for whatever she could find. Still, she had to carry them all herself, in the gravity, and that, Malcolm supposed, was punishment enough.

The corridor was easier this time. Without the suits, they weighed a lot less and could move more freely, although still with care. Boschmann had, on her own initiative, retrieved a flash light from her 'pod and was shining it up the corridor, augmenting Malcolm and Alice's own handheld lights. Between the soft green of what must be Kreetassan emergency lighting, and the bright beams of the Starfleet torches, the eerie, painted forest shimmered. Malcolm half expected the eyes of some alien bat or wolf to bounce light back at them.

The door from the large forward room was still open, as he had left it. Inside, however, it looked like a different room. The majority of the star-shaped ceiling panels had fallen and were now littering the floor. He could see that large, rivet-like structures had once attached them to the ceiling, but these had apparently fatigued and failed under the prolonged high gravity. The edges of the sheared metal looked nastily sharp.

"Commander?" Malcolm called uncertainly.

He heard Boschmann telling Travis through the comm-link that Malcolm and Alice had entered the room where they all hoped to find T'Pol. He couldn't see her, at first.

 _"Malcolm, is she there?"_ Travis's voice asked.

"There!" said Alice, at the same moment he saw it, himself. A piece of ceiling, the largest in the pattern, was jutting up at an awkward angle. Alice's torch swung towards it, illuminating an EV-suit clad arm extending out from underneath. Malcolm reminded himself not to run.

 _"Malcolm? Is T'Pol there?"_ Travis's urgent voice sounded through the comm loop.

Malcolm heard Alice answer Travis, heard Boschmann gasp. It felt like it took a long time to cross the room.

 _Alive, unconscious, thoroughly trapped, critically injured._

T'Pol's upper body seemed to have been mostly spared by the dome of her helmet. The force had shattered the part of the face plate. Malcolm could not really see her lower body, under the panel, but the geometry of the situation was frightening. In a bid to be optimistic, Malcolm reminded himself how small T'Pol was. He turned around.

Alice was on her knees, face slightly illuminated by her scanner's display. She was frowning.

"How bad?" Malcolm asked.

"Crush injury to the abdomen, fractured pelvis, hypotensive shock..." Alice seemed to be talking to herself as much as him. She had retrieved a small blade from somewhere in her case and was slicing the arm off T'Pol's EV suit, cutting quickly and pulling at the fabric to outpace the silver sealant foam which was designed to plug up gaps in the suit. Switching to scissors, she also cut the arm of the grey under-suit T'Pol wore. In a minute or so she had attached a fluid line and an IV bag. "Why isn't there a bleeding fluid pump in here? At least the gravity will work in our favour for once...Hold this will you?" Alice held the IV bag out to him expectantly.

Malcolm frowned, but didn't argue.

Her hands free, Alice administered some hyposprays to the underside of T'Pols arm. Malcolm leaned to see the scanner. T'Pol's blood pressure began to stabilise. Alice attached some tubing to a small canister of supplemental oxygen and, sliding carefully under the ceiling panel, threaded the tube in through the missing section of the helmet glass, placing the end as close as she could to T'Pol's nose and mouth.

 _"Malcolm, what's happening? That all sounds bad..."_ Travis's increasingly frantic questions reminded Malcolm of the people waiting on _Enterprise_. He looked at Alice, to see if she had more information.

She was pawing through the 'pod first aid kit and the abandoned medkit from yesterday, muttering thickly. Eventually, she simply tipped the kits out. Malcolm couldn't help watching the strangeness of familiar objects falling too fast in the hypergravity.

He moistened his dry lips with his tongue and hailed _Enterprise_ from the comm loop. "Lt Reed to _Enterprise_. I've located Commander T'Pol. She's trapped under a fallen ceiling panel and is currently unconscious. She's being medically assessed now. I'll advise you when we have more information."

Expecting Archer's softer voice, Malcolm started when instead Trip answered him, sounding frantic. _"Trapped? You need to get her out!"_

At this Harper frowned and shook her head. "Tricky..." she murmured.

Malcolm hoped the comm loop hadn't picked that up.

 _"TRIP? Where the hell are you?"_ Archer was shouting.

 _"Engineering"_ was Trip's exasperated answer.

 _"You're supposed to be on the bridge!"_

 _"Enough's enough, I'm accessing the damn Kreetassan computer and I don't give a fuck about protocol."_

 _"You will do no such thing, Commander, until I..."_

Malcolm closed his eyes. The bickering of the Captain and Chief Engineer continued into the comm link. _HIS comm link_. The comm link _he_ was using to keep track of _his_ people on this _damnable_ mission, in this _death-trap_ room, on this _cursed_ ship. Malcolm looked from the IV bag he was still holding to T'Pol's pallid, small boned arm and lost his patience. " _SIRS!_ May I have my comm link back, please?"

Silence stretched out. Malcolm suspected he would pay for that later, but couldn't bring himself to care. Any problems beyond the immediate felt impossibly distant. There was an audible click as _Enterprise_ abruptly disconnected from the comm loop.

 _"Oh man..."_ Travis breathed quietly.

* * *

 _Where was it?_

A clearly unstable stack of PADDs fell of the desk, one or two of them skidding a long distance across the floor. A wide eyed Engineering crewman scooped them up earning a pointed look from a few of the others.

"Slipping hazard..." she murmured softly.

Trip ignored them.

 _It's here somewhere_

The main door opened and Lt Hess walked in cautiously. She'd pulled on her uniform but had had time for little else, and still clearly looked like she had been asleep a few minutes ago. She sidled up to the watching crewman all the time keeping an eye on her boss. Apart from brief surprise that she'd beaten Jon down here, Trip payed no attention to her either.

 _I SAW it_

Hess hadn't beaten Archer by much. Out of the corner of his eye, Trip watched; watched Archer marching into Engineering in high dudgeon, stopping as he noticed the worried faces of Trip's staff, exchanging wordless communication with Hess, reluctantly letting his anger evaporate. Archer pausing, unsure just what to do.

 _I'll have to do without it_

Archer was approaching him. _Just another hurdle._ "Trip? How's it going?"

"I'm almost ready to try establishing a link. The security protocols are pretty minimal, actually." Trip replied, though he knew what Archer meant. What the drawn, wary expressions of his staff meant. He was furious and humiliated and yet at the same time he didn't care. He felt like there was more than one of him occupying the same space. Unsettling. Enraging. _Distracting._

"Okay."

Archer's response was unexpected enough to capture each of Trip's scattering attentions. For the first time, he looked at Archer, at Jon, properly. He looked tired.

"What?"

"Okay. You are right. We'll get everything we can from the Kreetassan computer and deal with any diplomatic fall out later. I'm sick of working in the dark."

Fury, born fully formed, sprung straight out of him. He grabbed Jon's shoulders, not bothering not to shout. "Jon, I don't give a damn about the damn data, we need to turn off the GRAVITY!"

* * *

"No we can't." Alice Harper was chewing her lip absently, not quite making eye contact with him.

Malcolm supposed it was because she was thinking, but he was finding it exquisitely irritating. He fought the urge to duck his head into her line of sight. "I think we have too. Even if we get Travis and Boschmann in here, I am not sure we could lift it. If we turn off the grav plating..." he trailed off in annoyance as she was already shaking her head.

"We could turn it _DOWN_ a bit maybe? But not _OFF_. It's too risky." She met his eyes at last. She looked worried.

When nothing else was forthcoming, he prompted. "Explain it to me."

"She's stable right now..."

"You call this stable?" Malcolm asked incredulously.

Alice's mouth twitched with apparent annoyance. "Yes, I do. She's stable right now, but when the panel is moved she probably won't be."

A sense of familiarity flashed through Malcolm's mind. He began to listen more charitably as Harper continued.

"There are two potential problems. The first is that the weight of the panel might be slowing the internal bleeding. When we lift off the panel she could haemorrhage rapidly into her abdomen. She could crash and need immediate resuscitation. If the grav-plating is off, we'd be resuscitating her in microgravity, and without any sort of harnesses or degassed IV fluids. You can't just use _any_ fluids. Bubbles form, and without gravity, they won't just float to the top of the bag. They could go down the line into her vein."

"And air bubbles in veins are bad. I know that much..."

"Very bad. So, crashing patient, and no fluids. Also, suppose we had to do chest compressions. How would that work in microgravity? On what would we anchor ourselves to provide the force?"

Malcolm nodded, dismayed at the blackly comedic images his exhausted brain was producing. _For fuck's sake, CONCENTRATE!_ "What's the other problem?"

"Excuse me?"

"You said _two_ problems."

"Right, I did. Reperfusion."

That sounded familiar too, actually, but he indicated for her to continue.

"It would be coming up on four hours now, since the panel fell. Toxins are beginning to accumulate in the compressed parts of her body, because they aren't being properly perfused with blood. We remove the panel and her blood flows into those areas and carries those toxins through her body, including to her brain and heart."

"Oh is that all?"

She'd clearly registered his sarcasm, acknowledging it with a tight mirthless smile, but continued as if she hadn't. "Actually no, that's not all. Look around you. This room is full of massive ceiling panels covered with razor sharp rivets. These would presumably all be floating around, while we are attempting to drag our crashing patient to the shuttle, so we could actually try to resuscitate her. How fast could we go? Yes, we will need to move the panel, but we need to be prepared both to resuscitate her, and get her back to _Enterprise_ as quickly as possible, before we do. Switching the grav plating off starts the clock, and we aren't ready."

Malcolm rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "Okay, you've convinced me. The problem is, I'm not sure that I can set the grav plating to something lower without turning it off entirely... Travis?" He asked into the comm loop, hopefully. Maybe Travis had some tricks from his space-faring childhood?

 _"Sorry sir, I wasn't really allowed to muck around with the grav plating and when Dad fixed it he always followed standard protocols, turning it all the way off."_

"Alright," Malcolm sighed in acknowledgement. "Sounds like we will need the two of you in here then. Travis, move carefully along the same path I used and collect Ensign Boschmann on your way. Please remember to check in every thirty seconds so I know you've not been killed."

* * *

 _"Ping successful,"_ Lt Hess said over the comm.

Archer had dragged himself back up to the bridge, leaving Hess and Trip to complete the link up. "Thank you, Lieutenant. Ready when you are, Commander Tucker. We'll just establish contact first. We need to warn Malcolm before just turning off the gravity."

When Trip audibly scoffed, Jon bit down on his anger. _Let's just get through this_

"Ready..." Trip said after a few more moments.

Archer took a breath unconsciously turning to face the viewscreen. Then he issued the order. "Establish the link."

For a few seconds an impossibly loud pulsing screamed from the bridge speakers and then total blackness descended.


	6. Chapter 6

Travis moved quickly through the checklist to secure the shuttle, trying not to think. _Thinking wasn't helping._

He was not at all pleased at the prospect of walking through _Treleishkah_ alone. T'Pol had been seriously injured, and it was only down to luck that Harper had not been as well. But, there were few alternatives. The thought of Bree collecting _him,_ in her first week no less, made Travis shudder and Malcolm was apparently unwilling to leave Dr Harper alone with T'Pol.

 _T'Pol could be dying and I'm about to take a leisurely stroll through a hypergravity mass-murder scene to pick up my girlfriend._

Thoughts were NOT helping.

But, listening as Reed and Harper bickered over the logistics of extracting T'Pol, Travis couldn't quite escape one thought. The thought they should be doing more... things?

Perhaps he and Bree should take the 'pods back to _Enterprise_ , bring one back with a few more people, an engineer? Maybe collect Phlox?

 _Do we even have that sort of time?_

The nattering in the comm loop was setting his teeth on edge. Reed was still going on about grav plating and Harper was interjecting with thoughts about levers and fulcrums.

"You doing okay, Bree?" he asked, timing his question so he would speak over Harper. She and Reed immediately fell silent, waiting for the response as well.

 _"Yeah, I'm okay, Tra...Ensign Mayweather. I've shut down my 'pod and I'm waiting for you."_

"Okay, I'm about to exit my 'pod, now. See you in a few minutes."

 _"Copy that."_ Travis could hear a small smile in her voice.

 _"Okay Travis, be careful."_ Reed's voice was gravelly and tired.

 _BE CAREFUL? Oh, do you think?_

"Sure thing!" Travis answered, aloud. Moving to the hatch of the 'pod, he cast one last reluctant look back toward _Enterprise_ , Phlox, and more help.

Before his eyes, _Enterprise_ vanished into the darkness.

Travis froze in shock, not quite able to believe what he had just seen. A moment later, he was moving again, frantically rebooting the systems he shut down. Half way through, he realised he was not following the proper checklist, but fortunately the 'pods scanners came online anyway. At first he could see nothing, but cycling through the settings he realised that _Enterprise_ WAS still there. He could detect heat slowly dissipating into space and, to his relief, the crews' lifesigns. But beyond that, _Enterprise_ was emitting no energy signature at all. She was dead in space.

He needed to tell Malcolm, but before he could find the words, Fabrecia shrieked into the comm loop. _"_ Enterprise _is GONE!"_

There was a long pause before Malcolm asked, carefully _"Could you run that one past me again, Ensign?"_

Lips dry, Travis cut it. "It's not gone sir, but it's gone dark. According to scanners, they've lost all power." There was another very long pause from Malcolm, into which Travis added. "I'm reading the crews lifesigns, but... I think life support has gone down over there."

 _"Lt Reed to_ Enterprise _?"_ Malcolm's hail was only answered by silence. _"Right..."_ He said after a long wait for a response. His voice was soft.

Dr Harper's voice followed, grimly. "Sounds like we'll be needing a Plan _C_ , then."

* * *

For a moment, Jonathan Archer could only feel pleased that the ear splitting pulsing had stopped. The bridge was pitch-black and he was weightless. There were several soft cries of alarm to his right, the junior science staffers quietly panicking in the floating dark. He heard soft bangs ahead of him and then a bright beam of light shone straight into his eyes. His lurking headache sent a sharp tentacle of pain around his left eye, and he flinched. The movement caused him to topple into a roll which was only slowed as his head collided with his arm rest.

"Sorry, sir." It was Ensign Wendall at tactical, holding a flashlight.

 _Of course there'd be a flashlight at tactical._

Wendall angled the beam away from the Captain's face and fiddled with the beam's collimation. Shortly, it was illuminating a wide section of the bridge.

"Where's the emergency lighting?" Archer asked himself, rather than Wendall.

"It looks like emergency power has failed, sir?" Wendall answered, apologetically. Every console dark, he had no more information than Archer did.

"There's a second flashlight here, sir." Wendall retrieved it, pulled himself along the tactical console with his hands, and tossed it in a graceful accurate arch to one of the science staffers. Catching it, she set to work illuminating the rest of the bridge with it.

 _Of course there'd be TWO fucking flashlights at tactical_

"Is there anything else in there, Wendall? Duct tape, matches, pen-knife, spare battery packs?" Archer asked whimsically.

"There aren't any matches, sir."

"Your boss is slipping then..."

"There is a lighter, though."

Archer laughed in spite of himself. The science staffer not holding the torch tugged fruitlessly at the door, and then shook her head.

"Okay everybody..." he began, adopting his speechifying timbre despite the fact he was only speaking to three people. He considered it reassuring. "... it doesn't look like there's much we can do from up here. Apart from toast some marshmallows, maybe? Any marshmallows, Wendall?"

"No sir..."

"I'm sure the folks in Engineering are working on the problem and we'll be back up and running in now time. Now everybody sit tight and remember, don't muck about in the 0 g, we're supposed to be professionals."

"... there are some ration packs, but none of them have marshmallows."

One of the flashlights wobbled a little. Archer sighed.

* * *

In _Enterprise_ 's sickbay, Hoshi Sato woke up.

She had no idea where she was. It was almost completely dark. The only thing she could make out was a jar of tiny writhing shapes glowing a sickly green.

She couldn't hear the engines.

A firm, padded surface was being pressed against her back. She was strapped down.

Panic rose in her chest and she began to scream.

"Ensign?!" A voice, surprised and strained, in the darkness.

 _Phlox!_

 _Sickbay?_

"Dr Phlox? Is that you? What the hell is happening?" Her head didn't hurt when she was still and silent, but every movement, word and scream drove a lance of pain right behind her eyes. Her back and neck ached constantly. She found she was crying. The tears pooled wrongly, refusing to fall away.

Phlox sounded like he was across a room. "The lights and grav plating appear to be malfunctioning. I'm sure it will be put right in a moment. I'm sorry Hoshi, I didn't expect you'd wake up."

"I'm back in sickbay?"

"Yes, you are, my dear. I'm sorry, but you've had another seizure. A far more serious one this time."

 _ANOTHER seizure_

Hoshi swallowed. "So it _IS_ seizures. Harper was right ad I'm having seizures?"

Phlox's signature avuncular tone failed him. "Yes, it would appear so, Hoshi. Please try to relax, there will be plenty of time to discuss this when emergency power..."

"Is Dr Harper here? " Hoshi interrupted him.

There was a disheartened pause before Phlox answered. The menagerie, unused to such utter darkness, chittered timorously. "No. She is back aboard _Treleishkah_. There's been an emergency with Commander T'Pol."

Regret that she'd hurt Phlox, and anger at her regret, piled on top of Hoshi's fear and her pain. She bit the inside of her cheeks. She tasted blood. She could not bring herself to speak.

They waited in darkness.

* * *

Travis forced open the doors to what the schematics identified as _Treleishkah_ 's medical bay. It was brighter inside, the same eerie green light, but more intense. It came from round, floor to ceiling pillars, shining out from between delicate filigree tendrils. Six medical beds radiated from the centre of the room. The walls were covered in cabinets containing unfamiliar copper coloured instruments and tiny, flared bottles of multi-coloured liquids.

 _"How's it look?"_ Dr Harper asked through the comm. The anxiety in her voice had ratcheted up quite a few notches in the last twenty minutes since _Enterprise_ had gone dark. Travis was now seriously concerned about T'Pol.

"Um... there are beds and... stuff?" Travis replied uncertainly, cringing at himself even as he did.

 _So helpful!_

If Harper was impatient with his answer, he didn't hear it. _"Is there anything like an operating theatre? Any surgical tools you recognise?"_

"Um..." Looking around, Travis noted a small doorway on the other side of the room. He glanced inside and saw a similar bed. Quarter columns were built into the corners and the floor appeared ceramic. The cabinets in this room were opaque. "...there's something? It _could_ be an Operating Room I guess?"

 _"Sounds like it could be worth a look. Thanks, Travis. I'll be right there..."_

 _"You can't go wandering off alone. Travis can come collect you..."_ Malcolm interjected crossly, as Travis moved to inspect the cabinets.

Travis heard Harper answer. _" I sympathise with your concerns, Lieutenant, but Commander T'Pol is not overburdened with time. You'll recall, I'm sure, those accumulating toxins I mentioned?"_

 _"You weren't in much of a rush before!"_ Malcolm answered.

 _"I could expect a fully prepped operating theatre at the end of a short shuttle ride_ before _. The situation has somewhat deteriorated!"_

Fabrecia Boschmann, now deployed at fruitlessly watching _Enterprise_ on her 'pod scanners, let out a anxious sigh at their rising voices.

"It will be alright, Bree" Travis said soothingly, unthinkingly, into the comm-link as Malcolm and Harper broke off.

Apparently chastened, Harper's voice was much calmer when she continued. _"I apologise, Lieutenant. I only meant that the situation has changed. I think we need to be comfortable with a higher level of risk."_

 _"So, you're saying I should adjust my level of comfort?"_ Travis heard something hawkish and cold in Malcolm's voice.

Harper apparently heard it too, as her answer was wary. _"Well... yes?"_

Malcolm sighed, tension giving way to resignation. _"Alright. Go look at the medical bay and see if this, this field surgery plan is even feasible. If_ Enterprise _is still not responding after that, we'll go from there."_

* * *

"Commander?" Lieutenant Hess had finished distributing battery powered lights to the occupants of Engineering. She was now drifting towards him, moving efficiently and keeping the bulkheads in her reach.

"The computer must be down. _Down_ down. OFF." Trip said incredulously. As late as twenty minutes ago, he'd not have believed this possible.

"I don't think anything's getting power..." Hess murmured softly, her deep set eyes flickered around the large room. Now armed with light, their staff had set about their tasks. They were drifting around with varying degrees of grace but with the universal good sense to stay close to the floor.

"Any luck with the back-up generator?" Hess asked, eyeing it with obvious ill humour, her mouth set grimly.

The generator hadn't been triggered as it should have been, and Trip wasn't sure why. The generator's fuel cells, which he was _certain_ had been operating properly, had apparently completely discharged. A game ensign had been dispatched in the floating dark for the backup, buried deep in a cargo bay. Unwilling to wait, Trip was ripping batteries out of the fortunately plentiful lights and clumsily wiring them together, cursing his burned, and bandaged hand.

Placing the last wire, Trip signaled to Hess, who had settled in by the generator. " Let's try it..."

The large magnets within the generator slowly began to spin causing a low pleasant hum. Automatically, dozens of small lights lit up the emergency board. Trip laughed hollowly for longer than he should have. The only thing working on the ship was a large board telling them nothing else was working.

Hess eyed him nervously. Sympathetically.

He spoke before she could. "Turn that thing off. It's pointless. What do we have enough Amps for?"

"We can run emergency lights for the bridge, sickbay, and here, or the comm system, or life support."

"Comm system. But first I need to link up to the external transmitter. I'm going to need to send a short burst of data to _Treleishkah_ , the away team will be waiting on us to turn off the grav plating."

Hess swallowed and eyed him indecisively. "Um, sir? Don't you think that life support..."

Trip sighed loud enough that her already trailing voice was cut off entirely. He considered just making it an order. _Intended_ to make it an order. But unexpected honesty poured from him instead. "Please. I can't think while... just please, let me do this. It will take a second, cost almost no power and then I'll be able to concentrate on this mess."

Hess slowly nodded, and then affectionately squeezed his shoulder. "Okay. Let me help."

* * *

Malcolm intently watched the read out on the medical scanner, thanking any available cosmic power for the tenacity of the Vulcan constitution. He had handed the IV fluid bag off to Boschmann, who he'd summoned from her 'pod because he'd forgotten all about her twice in ten minutes and that simply wouldn't do. _Enterprise_ , besides, would presumably hail them when they could. He needn't, and probably couldn't, spare someone to just stare at sensors.

Travis and Alice tramped back into the room, the latter with an arm full of yet more medical supplies which she added to her hoard.

"Well?" he asked, not quite game to take his eyes of the scanner until Alice had relieved him of it.

"It seems well equipped enough in terms of supplemental oxygen, and I've got enough drugs with me. The problem is the assembling a surgical kit. I don't know exactly what a lot of the equipment I found does and none of it is sterilised. I can't find anything that looks like an autoclave."

"So you are worried about infection?" Malcolm asked

"Well aye, I am a little, although that's mainly a problem for down the road. I suppose I'm more worried about the equipment. I've never used any of it before. At a minimum, I'm going to have to stop any internal bleeding and stabilise the pelvic fracture. Ideally, I'd like to do something about the leg fractures too, at least the femoral fractures, but if we can't sterilise anything, then drilling into bone is a pretty bad idea... I wonder if phase pistols can be used to sterilise things?"

"Let's refrain from shooting the surgical equipment for now..."

Alice nodded agreeably enough and then stared absently into the middle distance for a while, thinking. With difficulty, Malcolm resisted the urge to snap his fingers in front of her face.

"So surgical equipment is, what? Clamps, scalpels, some sort of thread? How different can any of that be?"

She gave him a long look. "You'd be surprised."

A thought occurred to Malcolm, and he swallowed. She was not going to like it. "Okay," he said carefully. "So you'll practise for a few minutes, get a feel for them."

"Practise? I need to understand the tissue handling properties of the tools! Who exactly do you propose I practise on...?" Alice trailed off. Conflicting emotions played across her face. They settled into something like fury, so her soft, pleading voice surprised him. "Those... those are people. Those are murdered people. Those are murdered people whose families don't even know they are dead."

Either Boschmann or Travis made a soft choking sound.

Malcolm didn't turn to see which. He needed to stay focused on his quarry. T'Pol being lost, let alone lost on his watch, was unthinkable. Ever. Especially now. He took a moment to ensure he used the kindest voice he could manage. "I know. It's awful and I'm sorry. But you ARE going to do it. Would it help if I made it an order?"

Harper started, eyes widening in bafflement. "Why would that HELP?"

Malcolm felt very tired. _Why aren't there any chairs?_ "Because then it would be my responsibility," he answered patiently, although it was clearly pointless.

"Responsib...? Is that really a thing? A thing that helps people?" Alice looked forlornly at Travis and Boschmann. Fabrecia met her eyes timorously. Travis shrugged uncomfortably.

But at the same time, Malcolm saw he had her.

"Alright," she said queasily. "I guess I'll go collect a _specimen_ then. Don't bother about the ordering, Lieutenant." She moved towards the door.

At that moment, _Treleishkah_ 's gravity plating reset from nearly 3g to 0.


	7. Chapter 7

It was a tough room. The science staffers, Lazlo and Tseng, he'd discovered, were petrified, and Wendall apparently had no sense of humour at all. Time had passed slowly.

Jon smiled with relief when the lights on the communication station began to flicker. A moment later, Trip's voice buzzed through the speaker. _"Tucker to bridge."_

"Great to hear your voice, Commander. What's going on down there?"

 _"Computer's down and main power's gone down too."_

"Don't we have a back-up generator?" Jon asked, confused.

Trip answered quickly. He sounded good to Jon. _Focused._

 _"We do. I think the fuel cell discharged. I've sent someone to the cargo bay for the spare fuel cell. At the moment I'm running it off the flashlight batteries. Once we get it hooked up, we'll start restoring emergency systems. Then we restart the main computer and restore main power."_

Jon smiled triumphantly at Wendall, Lazlo and Tseng. _You see? Everything's fine. Under control._

"Good work, Commander. How soon until we have external communications, I'd like to check on the away team." Jon had been reluctant to remind Trip about T'Pol. Foolishly so, now he thought about it. It wasn't like Trip would have forgotten.

 _"Maybe, an hour or two? I did manage to send a short burst command to turn off the grav plating. Other than that they are on their own for a bit longer."_

Distracted by the worry in Trip's voice, it took Jon a moment to identify the source of a sudden disquiet. "I never got around to telling Malcolm we were going to do that..." Jon spoke softly, more to himself than his friend.

 _"Oh, I thought you had. Never mind, I'm sure he handled it."_

"I'm sure," Jon said, injecting the reassurance with artificial confidence.

It was done now, anyway.

* * *

There was still no gravity in sickbay but at least some lights were on. Dr Phlox was taking advantage of them by showing Hoshi the scans he'd taken of her brain, luckily transferred to a PADD before the computer had failed. She could not make out much detail, and didn't really know what to look for anyway, but she studied them intensively, nonetheless. In part because she was sorry she'd lead Phlox to believe she'd lost confidence in him and in part because it took her mind off being strapped to a bed.

"There's very little to be seen..." Phlox was saying. From his tone of voice this was a reassuring thing. The menagerie seemed pleased by the restored light as well, even if it was not nearly as bright as usual. The 'chitters' had lowered in both frequency and pitch, and the sickly, green glow of the ugly little treshu worms was no longer discernible. The eel glided sinuously around her tank, seemingly fascinated by the microgravity.

"... No sign of deterioration between the scans. I'm very hopeful that it will just be a matter of medication to raise your seizure threshold, elimination of triggers..."

 _triggers_

She'd been on the bridge both times.

"... we should be able to come up with a regime which will prevent further..."

She'd been at her station both times.

" ... it may take some time and a combination of a few different..."

She'd been listening both times.

"... side effects which are usually quite manageable."

Listening to the distress call.

Hoshi, eyes wide, interrupted Phlox's monologue. "Is the comm system back up?"

Phlox stared at her, clearly nonplussed. "Yes, but..."

She gestured frantically for Phlox to open a link. "Ensign Sato to bridge!"

 _"Hoshi, you're awake!"_ The Captain's voice. Delighted.

"Yes, sir. I think I know what happened, sir. Don't let anyone listen to the distress call. There's something wrong with it."

 _"Something wrong with... the distress call?"_ The Captain sounded uncertain. Hoshi imagined that his expression would be something similar to the one Phlox was now giving her. Hoshi bit down on her rising temper, her rising panic, whatever it was that was bothering her about Phlox's face. This was important.

"Sir. I know how this sounds. I know I've been... ill. But I need you to listen to me now. I'm not confused. Not addled. Both times I had seizures I was listening to that distress call. I think I have an idea what those pulses are. Just, please don't let anyone else listened to it. I need you to believe me."

There was a pause, but Hoshi was suddenly confident. This would work. The Captain would _WANT_ to believe that she was alright, that there was a reason. She would be able to convince him.

At length Archer spoke, _"Malcolm listened to it quite a few times, didn't he? Although, come to think of it, he hasn't been looking that great either..."_

Hoshi had forgotten that. "Was there anyone else? There was, wasn't there... someone else in tactical wrote that report on the pulses..."

 _"That was you, wasn't it Ensign?"_

It took Hoshi a moment to realise this was not directed at her. Then another voice broke in, _"Um... yes sir... but I didn't listen to the call itself. I only worked off the audiological analysis. I didn't need to, you know, hear it."_

 _"Okay, good. Hoshi, I'll make sure no-one else listens to the recording. You can look into it when Phlox says you are ready, not a minute before. I'm glad you're feeling better, Hoshi."_

Hoshi smiled at the warmth in his voice. The _hope_. "Yes sir."

* * *

On the bridge, Ensign Wendall avoided his Captain's eyes.

He'd never lied to a commanding officer before.

* * *

There were multi-coloured flecks of blood all over Fabrecia's face. Green, red, purple. Travis wiped at them gently with a small piece of fabric he'd found. It was apparently the Kreetassan equivalent of a gauze swab, but it felt softer and oddly textured, more like silk. She looked at him with wild, hungry eyes. He could tell that she wanted him to kiss her, maybe make love to her. To clear away strange horrors of the last few hours.

And he was tempted. It was ludicrously unprofessional and a terrible idea. But he was tempted, regardless.

"That was... intense," he said instead, shaking his head at the memory.

The gravity had failed, the air had filled with sharp metal, T'Pol had crashed.

The silky fabric was only succeeding in absorbing the purple Kreetassan blood. They'd all been coated with it as they'd frantically propelled the dying T'Pol up the corridor to the Kreetassan medical bay. Travis had forgotten all about the dismembered corpses in the corridor. If Malcolm and Alice had forgotten as well, they sure hadn't slowed down, flying right through the gruesome, floating remains without flinching. Being in the lead, they had taken most of the damage from the sheared ceiling rivets, were the source of the red blood smeared over Bree's cheeks. Travis had a laceration on his forehead, but otherwise, just scrapes, a few tears to his clothing.

Alice had carelessly sealed a large cut down her arm with tissue glue before immediately beginning surgery. She strapped T'Pol to the operating table with bandages and anchored herself to it by the ankle. "One of you put on gloves and HELP ME," she'd snapped, already cutting. Green globules had drifted from the incision.

In the end, Bree had done it. It was Bree that didn't know T'Pol, who could face the thought of sticking her hands in her open abdomen.

Harper had smiled at her "Thanks Bree. Now Lieutenant, Travis, could you please try and get the gravity back on? I'm going to need fluids. Also it would help if my clamps weren't flying off!"

Miraculously he and Malcolm had done it. With nothing but Baird's inexpertly translated specs, they'd gotten the grav plating working in twenty minutes; Harper's tense mutterings in their ears. The grav plating had turned on set at about 0.75 g and they'd called it good.

 _"Bit o' warning would have been nice! Thank you though,"_ Harper had said into the comm, sounding quite a bit calmer.

Then, the fluctuating gravity had caught up with Malcolm and he'd vomited violently.

Harper had clucked sympathetically. _"Are you alright? I think there're some anti-nausea drugs floating around somewhere. Well... not_ floating _anymore I guess."_

And T'Pol hadn't died.

They'd moved her out into the main part of the medical bay. Impossibly light, pallid colour, splinted misshapen legs, large surgical incision right down her abdomen and smeared with her own blood.

And _alive_.

"Yeah, intense is the word," Fabrecia breathed. Her eyebrows sloped down from the centre of her face over enormous haunted eyes. "Kiss me... please."

"I..." Travis trailed off.

He looked at the others. Malcolm was slumped on the floor, in a corner, eyes closed. He could be asleep. Alice was staring intently at T'Pol and the medical scanner, her head moving back and forth slightly. She'd leap on the slightest deviation of the readings, fussing with drugs and fluids, then return to her watchful crouch. She reminded Travis of a large ginger cat who had hunted stray insects on his father's ship.

"Travis, please? I... it's my first week. I had my hands in a person. I can't...I'm shaking. I can't think. I'm covered with... please?!"

He did.

* * *

Again the emergency lights flickered for a few moments before turning off again. Consoles lit up and trilled randomly and fell silent. The smaller science officer, _Lazlo_ , Archer reminded himself, had been coaxed to communication and was poking at the console whenever it lit up.

Clearly the emergency generator was giving Trip trouble.

"Do we have inter-ship communications yet?" Archer asked Lazlo, although the answer was obvious.

"No sir. If the power supply was more stable..."

"I'm sure they're doing their best," Archer replied more snappishly than he intended causing Lazlo to audibly gulp.

 _Goddammit!_

A few long, silent moments later the bridge electrics stabilised, a dim, but consistent light filling the bridge. The intercom cracked and Trip's voice warned all hands that gravity was about to be restored. It happened a few moments later, mercifully smoothly, each of the bridge occupants safely planted on the deck. Archer shot smiles at each of them, none returned.

"Now?" he asked Lazlo, tone carefully friendly.

"Working on it, sir."

Archer sat down in his chair, taking a moment to enjoy weightfullness, surveying the bridge officers. They'd not been great company but at least no one had been sick.

"Now?"

"A few more minutes, sir."

The lights went out again.

"More than a few minutes now, crewman?" Archer asked into the blackness.

"Yes sir."

* * *

Malcolm wasn't entirely sure if he'd slept. Nausea and exhaustion had hounded him into a corner and he'd drifted unrefreshed for a while, anchored only by vicious little coils of pain. Now, he pulled himself upright and checked the chronometer on his scanner.

T'Pol was on a Kreetassan medical bed a few metres away. To his relief, she appeared a little stronger, more her usual colour. Somebody had cleaned her up a little and placed a thermal blanket over her legs. It had presumably been Alice, who was now sitting cross-legged on an adjacent bed, watching the medical scanner held in her lap. When Malcolm stood, she did not look up. He spotted Fabrecia and Travis curled up together, asleep on the other side of the room.

"What happened there?" he asked Alice.

"Hmm? What?" she looked up at him, blearily.

Instead of speaking again, he gestured in the direction of the sleeping Ensigns.

Alice merely shrugged with a small smile. "Do you want me to suture that now?" she asked, indicating a deep gash on his left forearm.

He'd forgotten about it. He poked it experimentally. It throbbed and oozed in reply. A trickle of blood ran down his wrist.

Rising stiffly from the bed, Alice ferreted around for supplies. "Sit," she ordered, affecting a doctor voice.

"Where do you all learn that voice? Doctors, I mean..." he asked her, though he sat as she had indicated.

"There's a class." She located a hypospray of antibiotics.

"Do you have any allergies?" she asked him.

"Loads," he answered. "... but none to antibiotics."

"Do you want a pain-killer? Only I'm not sure we can spare any..." she tilted her head to indicate T'Pol.

Malcolm nodded in understanding. He looked at the similar gash higher up on Harper's own arm and remembered the deeper one on her back from the previous day. He remembered she'd not had time to sleep in decon. "Maybe you should get some rest."

"Relax Lieutenant. I'm good at sutures. I can do a decent line of sutures without a nap. Unless of course you're terribly, terribly vain?" she gave him a mock searching look.

He smiled in spite of himself. "I meant..."

"... aye, I know."

Alice finished irrigating the gash and began to suture. She was using a needle and holders from the med kit, but Kreetassan suture material. Iridescent, the long thread shimmered as she briskly manipulated it. The pain was easily bearable, almost bracing.

"It's nice, this stuff. Stays right where you put it," she said, thoughtfully considering the suture material. "...pretty."

They sat silently for a moment, Harper's eyes flicking from her work to the scanner monitoring T'Pol. Malcolm meditatively counted the tidy line of sutures. _Eight, nine..._

"Lieutenant, I'm sorry about before. About the shouting. And the passive aggressiveness before the shouting..."

"It's alright," he'd answered her without really thinking, strangely captivated by the thread flittering back and forth.

She looked at him searchingly. "No, it's not. And I'm sorry."

He really looked at her now. The dark-circled eyes, the bone deep weariness. "It's alright." he repeated firmly. _Eleven, twelve..._

"Why are you here anyway?" he asked. _On Enterprise_ , he'd clarified when she shot a baffled look from him to T'Pol.

To his surprise, she laughed. "Dr Phlox would like to get laid."

Malcolm blinked. "You're sleeping with Phlox?"

Alice shook her head slightly, smiling. "No. Not me. Anybody BUT me, actually..."

"I'm sure you're not _THAT_ unattractive."

"You're quite the charmer, aren't you? I mean that, well, there are rules about not having sex with patients, _GOOD_ rules. Rules that go triple when you're the only doctor for light-years around. Ergo, I am here so Phlox can have relatively ethical sex with crewmembers." She finished the latest suture with a punctuated flourish.

Malcolm felt dimly scandalised. It had seemed like such a safe conversation topic. "Is this something Doctors _DO_ for each other though? Derail their careers to get each other laid?"

Alice looked at him quizzically. "It's not a derail. The NX 04 through 07 are already being built. They will need CMOs. I want one of those jobs, and starship experience can only help. I heard from Dr Lucas that Dr Phlox wanted another doctor for _Enterprise_ , and, well, who cares why? Everybody gets what they want."

"Which crewmember is Phlox interested in?" Malcolm asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"You would know better than me, I just met all of you." Alice answered with another small shrug. _Twenty five stitches, twenty six..._

Malcolm frowned slightly. "It still seems a bit odd. To go from a cutting edge specialist group to starship doctor. You don't look like an explorer."

She was done with the stitches. She was evasive. Something about her didn't fit. It was bothering him. She gave him a long look. He thought he saw sadness in it.

"What does an explorer look like?"

Before he could answer, he heard someone stirring. In confusion, he looked at the still and sleeping Travis and Fabrecia.

Alice sprang to her feet.

It was T'Pol.

* * *

She was aware of the pain, but it felt far away and unimportant. She must have been drugged, which meant someone had come for her. She tried to move but her body did not cooperate, and the effort unleashed the pain which bounded into the forefront of her mind, snarling. She released a weak little moan and nearly fainted from the effort of it.

"Commander T'Pol? Please lie still. You've been injured, but were here now. We'll take care of you".

"T'Pol? It's alright, try to lie still..."

Two voices, both strangely accented, one familiar, one not. They floated past her, blending together. Voices should not have colours, but these did. One orange, one blue.

She felt cold and heard a mint-green hiss. It dragged the pain away from her again.

"Commander, can you open your eyes?"

 _Can I? Eyes? Open...?_

She couldn't and then, at some length, she could. Outside her eyelids, it was swirling and murderously bright. Unbidden, they closed again and it took yet more time to open them again. She could not assemble both the required strength and the required concentration. As she found one, the other ebbed away.

"Is she awake?"

"Is she alright? Can she hear us?"

More urgent voices. Purple and red.

"Hush a little now, people... Commander, open your eyes."

She could, she did. The swirling made her gorge rise. There might be faces. Someone was shining a light into one eye, then the other. She wanted to kill them. Her hand swiped uselessly. Somebody caught it and held it gently.

"It's alright." The blue, soothingly.

"That's grand, Commander. Well done. You should rest now." The orange, kindly.

There might be water lapping at her. Cool air blew in her face. Breathing became easier, more fruitful.

She slept.

And she woke.

It was better.

There was a sense of place and the colours were behaving, staying anchored to visual things.

There were answers now. _Treleishkah_. Malcolm Reed. Travis Mayweather. Probably, the new doctor. The one she'd not met.

She'd been injured. _Crushed._

She was reluctant to interrogate her injuries. She found she would rather not know, rather escape into sleep again. A small part of her chided, but it was faint. _Mealy-mushy-mouthed_. Surprisingly ignorable.

The person she wanted most wasn't here.

Inky black water again.

Sleep.

* * *

In the end, he'd taken the bandage off, stripping it with his other hand and teeth. The skin beneath was shiny and pink. As he's worked, it had eventually rubbed raw and split, weeping blood and stinging with spilled solvent. A few of his staff had eyed it apprehensively. Hess had chased them off despite the fact that she was giving him nearly identical looks herself. During the last few months, Trip had been undertaking quite the field study of staring. It had _almost_ ceased to be annoying. He could objectify it. There was power in under-reacting to it in just the right way. It unsettled people, _scattered_ them.

This was far from his usual style of leadership. And he did feel guilty about it. But he could objectify the guilt too, so it did not gnaw. It just was.

 _She's probably dead._

And yet he _knew_ she wasn't. He couldn't know yet he _did_ know. Things would just _feel different_ if she were dead. He did not know how badly hurt she was, however. He tried to recall Malcolm's exact words and render every possible drop of meaning from them. Malcolm had said so little, though. Probably on purpose.

For hours, he'd been frantic, burning through himself. Frantic until the moment he had sent the burst of code to _Treleishkah_ , turning off its gravity. Now there was stillness of a sort. A grey. Jon had sounded disquieted about the gravity. Trip noticed a feeling of apprehension arise in his own mind about it. He placed it in the line with the guilt, the annoyance. He regarded the assembled feelings dispassionately. They stared back. Even his feelings had eyes today.

She was no longer trapped. Whatever else, he'd at least done that.

 _She's probably dead._

 _I know she's not._

Malcolm is over there. And Travis. They'll take care of her. And there's that doctor. The new one. Trip tried to focus on her. _Was she any good?_ He knew he'd talked to her for ages, over an hour, but he had formed no impression of her beyond a vague sense of kindness. Until he could get T'Pol back to Phlox, the future depended on the woman's proficiency, but Trip found he couldn't quite recall her name.

Adjusting the spanner a little, Trip forced his mind instead to the known quantities.

Malcolm. Malcolm was quick thinking and resourceful. He was careful, but would not dither. Trip had seen him manage a hundred crises with quiet, efficient competence. Trip tried to hold _THAT_ Malcolm in his mind and ignore the exhausted, pale Malcolm he had seen in decon. The one he had actually ordered back onto _Treleishkah_.

Travis. Travis was a less complicated prospect. Calm, almost aggressively cheerful Travis. Always a good man in a storm. They would do this for him. They were his friends, and they would rise, and they _WOULD_ save her.

Trip closed his eyes for a moment. Fear stared back.

* * *

Hoshi chafed. She'd drifted off to sleep for a while, then woken discontented. The restored gravity was a mixed blessing. On one hand, it made sickbay more familiar. A sense of place, of ground, was restored. The menagerie's more highly strung members were much relieved and chittered quietly around her. There was an occasional high pitched chirp, followed by a low rustle.

On the other, her claustrophobia.

"Can you take these off now, please?" she said, through gritted teeth, straining against the straps still securing her to the bed.

Phlox regarded her for a long moment. He was standing too far away from her.

Hoshi watched him, her disquiet rising. There was something wrong here, a dread that she couldn't quite place.

"Of course," he said, his voice quiet and infused with an strange timbre. The emergency lights showed unfamiliar planes on his face, casting long and sinister shadows across it.

He walked towards her and his stride was all wrong.

 _Too smooth and too loud. Too fast._

Her pulse rising, Hoshi fumbled at the strap across her chest but her fingers were slow and somehow had the wrong dimensions. They banged and jarred uselessly against the clips.

"Hoshi, are you alright?" _His_ voice was wrong again, teeming with harsh notes of fraudulent concern. "Hoshi? Talk to me. Tell me what's happening."

Hoshi's breath caught in her throat, a scream swallowed and turned inwards, twisting in her core. Before her eyes, the truth, suddenly, _terribly_ obvious.

 _Impostor._

Her breath returned now, ragged and fast. She gave up on the clips, and gripped the strap on either side, pulling with all the force she could muster. The edges dug painfully into her palms.

"Hoshi? Is it your claustrophobia?"

 _He's a fake._

She heard a low moan escape her mouth. _I have to get out_. She began to thrash, her neck and back protesting in agony, but she could not afford to stop. Her chest now heaved against the strap, screaming for air. It would not budge. She burned for oxygen.

 _What has he done to the air?_

"Hoshi, I believe you are having a panic attack. I'm going to remove the straps and administer a mild sedative."

 _If I let him drug me, I'm dead._

She forced herself to stop struggling against the straps and sucked in several large, taut breaths, amassing as much strength as she could. As fake-Phlox leaned over her, she held herself still, coiled to react. He released the strap over her chest, but she wasn't fooled. He moved towards her again, armed with the hypospray. It gleamed evilly in the light.

Hoshi knew she only had seconds. She slowly drew back her arms and then, with all the speed and strength she had, she drove two fingers from each hand into fake-Phlox's eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author note: Apologies for not updating yesterday. Thank you to my lovely reviewers, it really makes a difference! Also, as long as I am here, CONTENT NOTE: The violence starts to get worse from this point on, also the language, probably. More detailed content notes are available by PM request if you have a particular trigger/concern -actually that is always true.**

* * *

"It's been too long."

Travis nodded in agreement. They each studied the sensors and the dark area of space where they should be seeing _Enterprise_ if she had any external lights operating. The readings suggested _Enterprise_ now had grav plating and possibly emergency lights, but still no life support. The away team's hails were still passing unanswered.

"I can't see the emergency lights," Malcolm said ruminatively, staring out into the black.

Travis watched him with a growing sense of disquiet. Something was _missing_. The steady air of competence, the briskness. It was as if Malcolm was mired in something Travis couldn't see.

"It's too bright in here. If we turned everything off, maybe we could..." Travis trailed off, feebly.

Malcolm considered this for, it seemed to Travis, several moments too long.

"I expect we can trust the scanners," he said at last, no certainty in his tone.

There was a long, afflicted silence. "It's been too long," Malcolm repeated at the end of it.

Travis couldn't think of a thing to say.

After a few more fruitless hails, they headed in silence back to sickbay. Bree, perched silently on one of the beds, flicked wary eyes towards them as they entered, then relaxed. Her hair had come loose and flopped unsettled around her shoulders. Travis shook his head in answer to her unasked question. No word from _Enterprise_. She nodded stoically in reply. Harper neither moved, nor looked, in their direction. She was the least athletic of the away team and Travis could see her posture was growing stiff and fatigued. She was fading badly.

Malcolm's strangely still, contemplative gaze had fallen on T'Pol. Travis waited.

"How is she?" Malcolm asked very loudly, startling Harper.

After recovering for a few seconds, she replied, wearily. "She's stable. There are some signs of rousing, but I'm keeping her sedated."

Malcolm's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "So, she _COULD_ be more awake than this, if you stopped sedating her."

"I wouldn't recommend that," Harper said. She was now watching Malcolm carefully.

"We need to leave," he said flatly.

Harper shook her head. "No."

"We need to get back to _Enterprise_. Something's wrong over there."

"I do not think we should be moving her."

"Is she stable or not?"

Travis could hear a low undertone developing in Malcolm's voice. Bree stood up defensively.

Harper looked like she might wilt under Malcolm's glare. She visibly gathered herself, took a breath, and slightly jutted her chin. Again, her voice was weirdly calm, mismatched to her body language.

"If we knew sickbay was ready for us, I might be willing to chance it. But you said it yourself. Something is _WRONG_ over there. I'm not dragging the Commander into an unknown disaster. I'll stick with the disaster we know, thank you."

An ironic inflection crept into her final words and, with visible effort, she met Malcolm's gaze. Tension curdled the air.

"We needn't all go back. We have two 'pods," Travis interjected quickly, drawing everybody's attention.

Malcolm regarded him for a moment and then indicated that Travis should following him out of the others' earshot. Baffled, Travis complied, catching Bree's affronted look and Harper's rankled eye-roll as he did.

"Alright Travis, tell me your plan," Malcolm said when they reached the hallway, in a pleasant, reasonable tone that only worsened Travis's trepidation.

Travis didn't actually _have_ a plan, but resolved to think aloud. "Well, some of us stay here with the Commander, some go back and check on _Enterprise_."

Malcolm nodded, indicating he should continue. Travis did, striving to keep his anxiety from his voice. "... So the Commander stays, which means the doctor stays too..."

"But we can't leave T'Pol alone with her..." Malcolm interjected, tone still amiable.

Travis swallowed. "Um... right, they can't stay alone. We'd need at least one pilot, cause there's probably no power to the launch bay and dark landings are tricky..." It was always a little awkward to intimate to a superior that you don't think they can do something, but Malcolm was still nodding along agreeably. "... and we shouldn't send just one person back, in case... well, we don't know. So that's T'Pol, Harper and one of us here, and the other and Bree go check on _Enterprise_." Travis finished hurriedly.

Malcolm smiled. "Exactly. I think you are exactly right. It's not ideal of course, but we have to do something. Now, do you think you can handle Boschmann if something goes wrong?"

Travis's disquiet was rising, but he nodded anyway.

"Okay. That might be better then. You take Boschmann back to _Enterprise_ , find out what's happening and get sickbay and communications up and running and I'll stay here with T'Pol and keep an eye on Harper. I wish I'd thought to bring Phlox, instead. I don't trust her..."

Malcolm trailed off, seemingly lost in thought.

Travis studied his face carefully. "Um, Malcolm? Are you okay?"

Malcolm's face showed only mild surprise. "Of course I'm okay. I wouldn't mind getting off this bloody ship for once and for all, but otherwise... Why do you ask?"

"You just seem a little... I don't know... tired, maybe?" Travis felt utterly flustered. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to follow orders, grab Bree, and fly away back to _Enterprise_.

Malcolm shook his head quizzically. "I'm fine."

* * *

Wendall directed his gaze down at the display before him. Deep programming in the emergency systems prioritised tactical directing a sizable amount of the available power to the console. In this case it was wasted, as there was little to see, only the drifting, moribund _Treleishkah_ , the tiny, ever pinging beacon, and a display full of the already evident fact that _Enterprise_ was itself floundering. Nothing worth his attention.

Instead, without lifting his gaze, and giving himself away, he watched the others through his eyelashes. Archer was lolling almost theatrically in his chair, telegraphing his impatience to the largely indifferent room. Lazlo and Tseng were hunkered at communications and science respectively, trying to siphon enough power to run their consoles. Wendall was blocking their attempts easily, hoarding the power at tactical. Their frustration was weirdly hilarious. Whenever Archer shot either, usually it was Lazlo, a glare, they would startle and Wendall bit down on his glee.

 _Fucking idiots can't do their fucking jobs._

Lights flickered. Power fluctuated. Time ticked.

Archer began to pace.

 _Gazelles!_ Wendall thought wildly, and could barely contain a giggle.

He became aware he had drawn Archer's attention; the man was staring at him appraisingly. Under his gaze, Wendall confidently manipulated his panel, doing nothing much at all, but doing it with panache.

"I'm going to help out in Engineering," Archer announced loudly to the room before nodding approvingly at Wendall. "You have the bridge, Ensign."

Wendall nodded back cheerfully.

 _Jackass._

Archer forced open a door, grunting with the effort, and left the bridge. Lazlo and Tseng sighed audibly in relief at his exit, before shooting Wendall identical wary, wide-eyed looks.

Wendall smiled at them indulgently and then siphoned off their anaemic power reserves again. Tseng looked like she might cry.

"We really need to get back in contact with the away team. They could be in terrible trouble," Wendall said to Lazlo, loading his voice with sincerity.

Lazlo nodded his head, poking forlornly at the communications console.

Wendall, head again tilted low, smiled unseen. He looked again at the small cache of supplies he had found earlier. His eyes lit on something. It was a penknife.

Reaching for it, Wendall continued speaking to the dejected Lazlo. "In fact, I think I can help you get some power to comms. Come over here a minute."

* * *

Since fake-Phlox had foolishly released the chest strap before she had struck him, it had been easy enough to wiggle out of the rest of the restraints. He was now crouched in a corner, trying to lure her with fake pleas for help.

She should really finish him off.

Hoshi looked around for a weapon. She pulled carefully wrapped kits from a cabinet, ripping them open until she lighted upon a nastily sharp pair of scissors. Clutching them, she crept toward fake-Phlox. The menagerie had apparently noticed that Phlox was a fake too, because several of its loudest members were shrieking in alarm. But before she was close enough to strike, her head began to swim. Panicked, she tried to remember if she was too late, if she had already been drugged.

She should make her escape while she still could.

To her relief the doors of sickbay opened for her, and she ran out into the corridor holding the scissors defensively before her. She looked frantically around for help, but the corridor was empty. Her heart hammered in her chest and her breath whooped through her throat. There was definitely not enough oxygen.

Hoshi wanted to run. She could run to her quarters. But that wouldn't be safe. That would be too expected. She listed and rejected possible options. _Bridge, someone else's quarters, mess-hall, engineering._ She needed to pick somewhere unexpected, but isolated, at least until she could be sure what was happening. The crawl spaces between decks might work, she realised, but the thought made her chest feel tight, as if she were already compressed in a tiny space. She was not sure she could face it. She hit on a better answer.

Grimly she set off, pausing to hide a few times when she saw people coming. She tried to see their faces without them seeing her, tried to tell if they were real. She could not. She crept forward cautiously.

She did not see him until it was too late. He grabbed her arms, pinning them to her sides. "Hoshi? What are you doing here? Are you okay?"

Archer. _Fake-Archer._

He'd underestimated her. With a sudden movement she wrenched her right arm free of his too tentative grasp and drove her scissors up under his rib cage.

* * *

Fabrecia watched Travis's beautiful hands wend expertly over the 'pod's thruster controls. Under different circumstances she might have asked to attempt the rare and highly technical dark landing by herself. She almost did anyway. Instead, prodded by worry, she decided to spend whatever capital she had with Travis differently.

"Is he always like that?" she asked, her tone pitched carefully.

"Who?" Travis answered, seeming more distracted than warranted by his present task.

When, after a long pause, he still had not unravelled her meaning, she clarified hesitantly. "Lieutenant Reed."

"Malcolm? Yeah, pretty much..."

Travis answered automatically, although a moment later he looked thoughtful. Fabrecia watched his face, silently hoping he might say more. When he did not, she pressed on.

"He seems a little, I dunno, and we left Alice there..." Fabrecia trailed off, knowing she sounded ridiculous, perhaps insulting. Her chest tightened a little as Travis swung around to face her, but to her relief, he looked only bemused.

"You're worried about Alice? The worst Malcolm will do is snark at her, and based on what I've seen today, she can handle herself." A faint cloud of worry on his face undermined his slightly scoffing tone.

Still, that tone stung Fabrecia. She pressed her lips together for a moment, holding in a defensive retort. She felt ashamed of how she had begged for a kiss, for _comfort_ , earlier. She had never struggled with maintaining cheerful professionalism before and she was dismayed with how off-kilter she had been thrown. In a week. She began to regret falling into Travis Mayweather's bed so quickly.

"Alice _can_ handle snark," she agreed, her voice deliberately curt.

Travis gave her an odd look and they sat in the least comfortable silence of their acquaintance.

 _Enterprise_ , lit only by the 'pod's external lights, came up on them quickly and soon Travis was absorbed in the landing. The bay door had been closed after the second 'pod had departed for _Treleishkah_ , so they had needed to trigger it remotely, announcing their intentions to an unresponsive _Enterprise_. Both exhaled with a small relief when the low tech system responded, opening the doors and closing them again, after Travis's impeccable landing on the deck.

The bay was dark and did not repressurise.

"Life support must still be off-line," Travis said softly.

"But it's been hours..." Fabrecia replied, inwardly cursing the note of consternation in her voice.

" _Enterprise_ is well insulated, and there are the passive scrubbers, of course. Enough air and heat for days. It might not be a priority."

The confidence in Travis's voice rang false. They sat for a moment in the 'pod in the darkness. It was as if they had been swallowed.

"The grav plating's on," Travis added into the silence, cheeriness paper-thin.

When it became clear the bay _would not_ repressurise, they both pondered Fabrecia's EV suit. It was the only one they had and was unserviceably small for Travis. Helmet secured, Fabrecia scrambled into the 'pod's airlock. She was headed to the manual repressurisation control, or failing that, to fetch a second suit for Travis. The control worked, and Fabrecia sat down on the bay floor, shining her flashlight toward the 'pod, watching the pressure rise slowly on her hand scanner. She was furious to find discover there were tears in her eyes. She jarred the hand she had moved to wipe them away into the faceplate of her helmet. She let out a low sob.

"I upset you before..." Travis said, when the bay repressurised enough for him to leave the 'pod. He'd walked towards her flashlight without finding one of his own. She had heard him coming in echoing footsteps. "... and I don't know how. But, I'm sorry."

Fabrecia sniffed, hoped her eyes weren't red. "It's fine. I just want this day to _END_."

Travis sighed. "I need you to go to sickbay and give Phlox Alice's notes and scans. See about moving Commander T'Pol back across. I'm going to go find out about getting inter-ship communications back, figure out what's going on."

"You are going to the bridge then?"

Travis considered and then answered. "No, definitely to Engineering. Keep your communicator with you, I'll let you know what's going on. Don't give it up, unless someone who outranks me asks for it."

Fabrecia smiled in spite of herself. Maybe she didn't regret him after all. As she looked on, Travis pulled open a low panel and he released a mechanism.

Together, muscles aching, they forced open the bay's external doors.

* * *

Jonathan was acting on instinct. Hoshi, wild-eyed, had made a few furtive attempts to recover her scissors, but he knew his life might depend on them resting undisturbed, buried to the handle in his side. Trying not to twist his torso, he batted her hands away, letting the bulkhead brace him and take his weight. He was struggling to draw each breath; each was both harder and less fulfilling than the last. If Hoshi did not give up soon, she would win.

At last she did, fleeing with a harsh scream of frustration. Jon wondered at the scissors, barely illuminated by the emergency lights. He had not seen them and so he didn't know how long the blades were. He almost laughed at a sudden, panicked urge to pull them out himself. It felt like the little urge to jump from high places, or in front of moving trains.

 _Sickbay._

He would have to get there under his own power, because there was no one around.

 _Should have brought a communicator. Why do I never think of these things?_

It wasn't far.

 _If I had, who would answer?_

Walking was bad. His skin shifted around the scissors. It hurt a lot, but less than he thought it should. Which was probably bad too. He wondered if he should try to hold the scissors steady, keep them from jostling, but he did not trust his shaking hands.

 _Why did Hoshi stab me?_

The thought, ridiculously late, stunned him into motionlessness, and he struggled with the effort to begin walking again.

She did not look well.

Without deciding to, he sank to his knees, swaying with lightheadedness.

 _I'm going to fall_

 _DON'T FALL ON THE SCISSORS_

 _Why did Hoshi stab me?_

 _DON'T FALL ON THE SCISSORS_

 _...emergency beacon..._

 _SCISSORS!_

She caught him. Fabrecia Boschmann's hands were holding his shoulders. Her large dark eyes were staring questioningly into his. She was talking, but her voice was far away. He tried to focus on her lips.

"Sir? Captain? What's wrong? What's happening here?"

 _What's happening here?_

She'd not seen the scissors. He tried to tell her, but talking, he found was impossible. His face didn't want to move at all.

Then she saw them anyway and a veil of panic tumbled over her features. She took his weight, she was surprisingly strong, and lay him, face up, on the deck.

"Stay here, I'll get the doctor." She ran down the corridor.

Jonathan turned his head, his vision now steadily greying. He could see sickbay, he had been close. He saw Fabrecia Boschmann reach the door. She opened it, looked inside, and screamed.


	9. Chapter 9

Engineering was frenetic. Travis had been rather expecting to find Captain Archer down here, but he couldn't see him among the tumult of activity. Tucker, on the other hand, he heard, before he saw him, his distinctive voice clamouring orders over the din. To Travis, Trip sounded more himself than he had in a while and so as he approached him, Travis's spirits buoyed slightly.

"Trip? What's going on? What happened to _Enterprise_?"

"Travis? Where did you come from? Where's T'Pol?"

Travis spackled a smile to his face. "She's still on _Treleishkah_. She's stable, but Doctor Harper was fussing about transporting her back to _Enterprise_ before we knew what was going on over here."

Trip's whole body seemed to sag in relief and Travis forced his own mutinous features to maintain their composure. He'd said nothing untrue, after all.

"Um yeah, I don't know. The main computer crashed and somehow took out most of the emergency systems on its way down. I'm having to hard start everything," Trip said pensively. He surveyed his bustling staff for a moment before continuing. "I'm sorry we couldn't warn you before taking the grav plating off line over there. Inter-ship communications are spotty..."

Travis froze at the memory, remembering just too late to keep the horror off his face. He fumbled for something to say, eventually composing another careful half-truth.

"That panel was huge. We would have had a devil of a time lifting it in that gravity."

Travis squirmed as Trip surveyed him uncertainly. Then a sudden understanding seemed to strike the Engineer. "Malcolm must have been pissed though, it just going off like that. And nauseated probably..." Trip paused and continued more softly. "...I've been kinda an ass to him today. I'll apologise."

"He did vomit pretty spectacularly more than once," Travis agreed miserably. He fervently wished he'd checked the bridge for Archer instead. Explaining to Trip what exactly had happened on _Treleishkah_ felt like a job for Harper, but Travis was neither a talented nor a willing liar and he was about at his limit.

When Bree's voice squeaked into his communicator he was delighted with the reprieve. He rapidly explained to Tucker he had sent her to Phlox before answering. "What is it Bree?"

 _"Travis, I need help! Captain Archer's been stabbed."_

"WHAT...?"

"...STABBED?"

Travis and Trip shouted at once, their eyes locking. The closest engineers also turned in alarm.

 _"I found him in the corridor just down from sickbay... there's quite a bit of blood..."_ Fabrecia's voice was tight and hitched with sobs.

Trip pulled the communicator from Travis's unresisting hand. "Ensign Boschmann, this is Commander Tucker. Are you able to get to sickbay and alert Dr Phlox?"

Travis was impressed by the calm authority in Tucker's voice. He himself felt like his last nerve had frayed.

"I tried that sir, but Dr Phlox is hurt too... I... I don't think he can see."

* * *

Malcolm watched her intently, waiting for the slip that would betray her. Reveal her true motives.

She was apparently mostly consumed with T'Pol, but a few times a minute she shot furtive glances in his direction. "Perhaps you should sit down, Lieutenant?" she suggested hesitantly on one such occasion.

 _What doesn't she want me to see?_

"I can see what you are doing from here," he had answered sharply.

She only nodded falteringly in reply.

Now though, she was holding a hypospray and kept flickering her gaze towards him as she approached T'Pol.

"What's in that?" he asked her sharply. He jumped at his voice, as he thought she might.

"It's more antibiotics."

He tried to hold her gaze. She blinked and looked away. "You seem jumpy, doctor..."

She chuckled anxiously, breathily, and gave him a small smile, one that didn't reach higher than her lips. Her eyes and brow telegraphed watchful anxiety. "Headache. Caffeine withdrawal. Could use a coffee..." Her voice and smile trailed off together.

"Caffeine withdrawal already?"

He took a step forward, Alice Harper stepped back. Malcolm noticed with curiosity that she was positioning herself between him and T'Pol.

 _You're frightening her._

No particular emotion attached to the thought.

"Caffeine is pretty much a key component of my body chemistry at this point..." She was now, he noticed, unable to keep her emotions, which her face so openly displayed anyway, out of her voice.

He took another step forward.

She stepped back again, now completely backed against T'Pol's bed.

"I need to..." she gestured helplessly with the hypospray.

"I've only got your word for it. That those are antibiotics," he said meditatively.

"It's written on the vial. You could check..." she held out the hypospray. He thought he saw the slightest tremor in her hands.

"I'm frightening you," Malcolm said. It was not a question.

He saw her nod the slightest nod before she could catch herself. Her eyes, wild and green, were locked onto his.

"I don't trust you..."

"Lieutenant, please..."

"You're a terrible liar... your thoughts are always written all over your face..."

"I'm _not_ lying. I'm a doctor, I have a patient, that's all..."

He cut her off, raising a hand slightly and breaking eye contact. "I know. You haven't done anything but help and you can't lie worth a damn and still every instinct I have is screaming that you are a threat."

She looked at him pleadingly, her voice breaking. "I'm not a threat."

Malcolm nodded and tried to smile. He needed to make her understand. His voice was almost a whisper. "I know. That's what I'm trying to say. I think there's something wrong with me."

Frozen, they looked at each other for a long time. Before either could say anything, T'Pol stirred and woke.

* * *

Pure adrenaline carried Trip to sickbay, dimly aware that Travis was a step behind him. Boschmann had evidently used the intervening time to carry or drag Jon into sickbay, because as he entered, he was confronted with the bloodied figures of both his best friend and his doctor lying on the floor. He hesitated for a moment, in silent concert with Travis, before moving toward Jon.

"Help me lift him," he said to Boschmann.

A brief glance revealed that Travis had crouched in front of Phlox and was speaking to him softly. Trip packed some gauze from the floor around the handle of the scissors. He hoped it was clean. It did not saturate with blood as fast as he had feared.

This little thing accomplished, he turned his attention from Jon's wound to Jon's face. He was conscious, and seemed to be trying to speak. "What happened, Jon?" Trip asked.

There was no immediate answer. Trip spared a quick glance to Travis and Phlox who had not moved, which was not encouraging. Trip then shot a look at Boschmann, still standing by the bed. Her look was beseeching. She was waiting for him to fix this.

"Harper's still on _Treleishkah_ , right? With T'Pol?" he asked.

Boschmann nodded, replying, "I could go get her, take the 'pod?"

Trip shook his head, though part of him did want to nod. He needed time to think and could only hope Jon could afford it. Instead, he said, "I'll worry about getting Dr Harper here, Ensign. I need you to go find Liz Cutler and get her here. Look... I don't know... the mess hall? Take your communicator."

Boschmann nodded and hurried off.

At last, Jon managed a word. "Hoshi..."

Trip looked around unseeingly, already knowing she wasn't in the room. "I don't see her. I guess Phlox discharged her. Don't worry; I'm sure she's fine."

Trip tried to smile reassuringly at Jon's distress. He took his hand. Squeezed it. "Worry about YOU, now, okay?"

He motioned for Travis to come over. He did, looking haunted. "Trip, I think Bree's right. His eyes are... they look bad."

Trip swallowed. Nodded. "Did he say what happened?"

Travis looked at him uncertainly. "Well, he did but... he said... Hoshi..." Travis's voice trailed off in bewilderment.

Trip's head started to spin. "Hoshi?" I don't think I can handle this, he thought.

 _You HAVE to. You're in command now, Sunshine..._

Trip knew he should talk to Phlox, but found he couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't even bring himself to walk over. He had about one thread of composure left and he needed to protect it, because he was, to his horror, in command of a stricken ship, and Jon could be dying. With brutal, queasy effort, he put Phlox out of his mind and turned back to Travis.

"We can't raise _Treleishkah_ by communicator, can we?"

Travis shook his head. "No. Malcolm's got a communicator, but there's too much of that weird interference. Even from the 'pod we lost the signal almost as soon as we launched."

"Right. So we either relaunch a 'pod, fix _Enterprise_ 's transmitter, or fix the transporter..."

Travis answered, almost reluctantly. "The 'pod's a pretty big fuss. The bay pressure controls are off line."

Trip nodded thoughtfully. "Transmitter is linked to the main computer. Transporter can be isolated though. Might be the best choice. T'Pol's not keen on the transporter..."

"She's sedated though..." Travis answered without thinking.

Trip looked at him sharply. "Why?"

"Well... you know Doctors..."

"Travis, how badly off is T'Pol?"

"She's stable..."

"Travis!"

"... for now. I _think_."

It was almost too much, but, from somewhere, Trip summoned enough calm to continue. He squared his shoulders. "Right. I will get the transporter on line. You and Phlox and Liz will just have to manage Jon the best you can until then."

Trip stalked out of sickbay, too distressed to look back.

* * *

This time, waking was better. Sensations were well grounded to their regular senses. There was pain, but it was well muted, more chilly than distressing. Her mouth was dry and that was worse. There was a small tug, _an undertow_ , pulling her back into the inky black of sleep, but she found she could resist it.

Lieutenant Reed and Dr Harper looked down at her. She was mildly shocked at how bad they looked, both pale, drawn, and anxious. She hoped this was not on her account.

"How are you feeling, Commander? Are you in pain?" Harper asked her carefully.

"The pain is tolerable. My current level analgesia is adequate."

It was a lot of words and T'Pol was relieved she was able to manage them, although she noted a croaky weakness to her voice. She considered asking for water, but she doubted it would be allowed. Still unwilling to learn the extent of her injuries, T'Pol resolved that she would instead ask about the situation.

"Where are Ensigns Mayweather and Boschmann?"

Reed answered, gently. "They've taken one of the 'pods back to _Enterprise_."

"Why? And why have we not also gone?"

"We didn't want to move you yet," Reed answered.

T'Pol attempted to convey by expression that this was an inadequate explanation, hoping she would not have to resort to more words. She didn't. Reed took her meaning, and wearily explained about _Enterprise_ 's unexplained power failure and the decision to send Mayweather and Boschmann back to investigate.

T'Pol did not currently feel able to assess whether his command decisions had been wise or not, so she refrained from commenting at all. She noticed that Reed had attempted to supply no additional information about her medical condition beyond the wish not to move her back to _Enterprise_. Harper said nothing at all; she stood a little distance away, her gaze flickering between them. She was, T'Pol realised, holding a hypospray.

"What is that, Doctor?"

For a second, Harper looked at the hypospray as if she had not seen it before, then her eyes widened.

"Antibiotics! It's antibiotics, you need antibiotics,"

Reed gave Harper another look T'Pol didn't even try to understand.

"Why do I need antibiotics, Doctor?"

"To prevent infection. We had to do an emergency surgical procedure here and there wasn't time to devise an entirely sterile field and honestly I'd probably want to give them to you anyway..."

T'Pol's brow creased. "Who is "we"?"

"Erm... I... _I_ did surgery. You need antibiotics because I did surgery. On you. It was an emergency." Harper trailed off, apparently aghast at herself. She swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment, and when she resumed her tone was one more typical of Earth physicians.

"The grav plating failed at which point you began to haemorrhage severely and your breathing and circulation failed. It was necessary to perform immediate field surgery to save your life. I was able to control the haemorrhage. I have also temporarily stabilised your pelvis, which is fractured, and splinted your legs which are also broken in several places. You will need further surgery once we return to _Enterprise_." Harper paused and watched T'Pol for signs she understood.

T'Pol nodded at her. Although hearing the description of her injuries had been distressing, T'Pol had been concerned that the damage to her lower body would be far worse than what had just been described. So, she found she was also relieved.

Harper had now found her stride, continuing. "Commander, you intimated that you were in pain, but that it was tolerable. How would you rate your pain on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being..."

"My analgesia is adequate, Doctor," T'Pol interrupted her, as firmly as her spindly voice could manage.

"Now, there's really no reason t'..."

"I decline further pain relief, Doctor Harper. I will advise you if I change my mind."

Harper huffed a little, but fell silent. T'Pol looked at Reed, who smiled back at her and conspiratorially rolled his eyes in regard to the doctor. In her weakened state, T'Pol almost smiled back.

* * *

Tseng was crying pretty hard now. She kept looking over at Lazlo's corpse. Wendall dimly remembered someone telling him the two had once been involved. From the fuss she was making, Tseng must have still been carrying a torch.

"Keep working on restoring life support," he called to her, waggling the blade of the penknife slightly. His voice had a peculiar sing-song quality to it. Wendall was fascinated, he'd not sounded like that since he was a child.

Tseng bit down on her lip and muffled her sobs with her hand. She nodded curtly.

"You mean _Yes, sir!_ " Wendall called cheerily.

"Yes, _sir_." Tseng spat out between her sobs, before returning part of her attention to the board before her. The other part was always on the knife.

Wendall knew she had no chance of fixing the life support from here, but it was keeping her occupied. Stopping her from getting ideas. He threw himself into the Captain's chair, then turned so he could keep an eye on Tseng.

"He's a buffoon, you know... Archer I mean," he said conversationally. When she didn't reply right away, he snapped at her, stabbing into the chair for punctuation.

"Yes, sir!" Tseng yelped.

"Better..." Wendall purred. "... a total buffon. Always hawing and speechifying and bumbling about. He shouldn't be in charge of a church bazaar, let alone a starship. They have those where you're from Tseng? Church bazaars?"

"Yes, sir," Tseng whispered.

"Where is that?"

"Michigan."

Wendall smiled broadly. "I have an aunt in Michigan. I'm from Maryland myself..." He peered at Tseng, pleased with the connection.

She swallowed. "My whole family is in Michigan. We have a dairy farm. My first name is Irene. My parents are Leslie and Kuo. They love me..." She trailed off into halting sobs again.

"I'm sure they do, Irene. I've always liked cows. Do they have the brown kind?" Wendall tried to speak soothingly. If she panicked, she might be trouble. And he might need her later.

"Black and white. Friesians."

"Those are nice too."

* * *

Fabrecia had said to him earlier that this day needed to end. At this moment, Travis fervently agreed. In fact, if the day had been made manifest, he might have tried to strangle it with his bare hands. He counted out the minutes until Bree could be reasonably expected back with Liz Cutler. Every so often Archer tried to talk, and Travis hushed him. In truth, he had no idea whether trying to talk while critically injured was a bad idea or not, but it seemed like the kind of thing discouraged in the movies. He could barely recall his first aid training, and the little he could was quite inadequate for this sort of thing anyway. Phlox would occasionally try to help by offering advice in a general sort of way but kept lapsing back into shocked silence. Travis had shoved some dressings, gauze and bandages into the Doctor's hands which Phlox had used to mop most of the blood from his own face and then clumsily bandage his eyes. Phlox had softly asked Travis how bad they looked. Travis, who had done his best not to look too closely, hadn't known what to say and had only murmured reassurances in what he hoped was a comforting tone.

 _Where the fuck is Liz?_

Archer had now bled through the gauze packing the scissors, still in place. Travis was pretty sure they should not be moved. Afraid of dislodging them, he just carefully packed more gauze around the already saturated stuff. That _looked_ better, anyway. He studied the numbers on the medical scanner he had pointed at Archer taking some small comfort in the fact that the readings were more or less stable and not grossly dissimilar to those he got when pointing the scanner at himself. It was only a small comfort though, because Archer seemed to be growing paler, and his breathing more laboured, harsh in the oppressive silence of sickbay, the menagerie oddly stilled.

 _Where the fuck is Liz?_

At long last, she entered several paces ahead of Fabrecia. She froze about a metre in, head skittering between the two patients. With, what seemed to Travis, to be a certain reluctance, Liz headed over to Travis and Archer, calling out to Phlox as she did. "I'm here now. I'll be there in a moment. We were stuck in a science lab, I couldn't get the door open."

Liz snatched up the medical scanner from Travis and with a slightly irked expression, expertly flicked the controls, changing the display.

"Sorry," Travis muttered uncertainly.

Liz offered a small smile, and turned to Archer, murmuring. "Haemodynamically stable...uh oh... diaphragms punctured, pleural space... gonna need a chest tube I think..." and then sharply to Travis. " Where the hell is Harper? Isn't this supposed to be the point of her?"

Travis explained as succinctly as she could while Fabrecia retrieved and held out the PADD of notes on T'Pol's condition which Alice had prepared for Phlox.

Liz waved it away impatiently indicating wordlessly that she had enough on her hands. "You need to get her back over here. His diaphragm will need a surgical repair." Her tone was fractious, her nose crinkled.

Travis nodded mutely as Liz handily assembled a supplemental oxygen kit. "How much pain relief did you give him? What hypospray?"

 _Damn._

Travis shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry...I forgot..."

Liz's eyes narrowed, her voice rising. "You forgot for _BOTH_ of them I suppose? Damn it Travis! Don't you realise how much eye injuries hurt?"

"Liz.."Phlox interjected, gently, causing her to leave Archer and hurry over to him.

Travis felt Fabrecia's hand steal comfortingly onto his back. He smiled tightly at her over his shoulder and then went to find an analgesic hypospray for Archer, better late than never. Archer still appeared conscious, but was no longer attempting to speak. His breathing seemed slightly more settled since the oxygen mask.

"I'm sorry, sir," Travis said, as he administered the analgesic hypospray. From behind the oxygen mask, Archer offered him a slight, reassuring smile.

Across the room, Liz was scanning Phlox's eyes through the disordered bandages. Speaking to Phlox, her previously sharp tone was now soothing and tender.

"It's not so bad, I think. A lot of swelling, but both sclera are intact... no orbital fractures. There are corneal abrasions, a lens dislocation on the left and a detached retina and some mydriasis on the right. I think this can all be fixed...I mean it's serious, but I think it's going to be okay."

Phlox nodded, clearly relieved.

"I'm just going to redo the bandages for you," Liz said, shooting another irked expression towards Travis in regard to their state. He considered attempting to explain that Phlox had applied the dressings himself, but thought that would do little to endear him to Liz.

Travis turned to consider Fabrecia. He was reluctant to abandon her here but... "Liz, do you need me here? Because somebody really should be getting up to the bridge."

Liz considered him for a moment. "I'll need some help with the chest tube in a minute. Can you handle that Ensign Boschmann?"

"I..."

Hoping Fabrecia would forgive him, Travis interjected. "Sure she can. She helped Harper out with T'Pol. She'll be great." He really hoped he could leave without looking Fabrecia in the eye, but...

"Excuse me? Travis? I mean Ensign Mayweather?"

He made himself look at her. She looked miserable rather than angry and when she spoke it was on another subject. "Should we be doing something? About Ensign Sato?"

Travis puffed out his cheeks. He was deeply sceptical that Hoshi had actually caused all of this damage. There must have been some sort of presently unfathomable mistake. Still, Fabrecia was right. "I'll find someone in security and mention it on the way."

As he left, Travis grimly wished he was still on _Treleishkah_.


	10. Chapter 10

"It's been too long."

Malcolm paced in _Treleishkah_ 's medical bay. T'Pol, propped up with several folded silky blankets for want of pillows, watched him phlegmatically. Alice, probably unintentionally, had dozed off on an adjacent bed.

"It has not been that long."

"We should have heard something by now."

"By what mechanism could you expect to receive such a message?"

"I had no idea what is happening over there and I just sent them blindly into it."

" _Enterprise_ 's apparent power loss is more than adequate to explain the lack of communication."

"Vulcan powers of recuperation really are astonishing."

"That is an illogical response to a superior argument."

"You're right, I'm sorry." Malcolm hissed through his teeth and attempted to arrest his pacing. He was only successful for a few moments. "It feels wrong not to be doing anything,"

"You _DID_ do something by returning Ensigns Mayweather and Boschmann. Having done so, it would be illogical to do anything else before you can reasonably expect a result from that action."

"We should take the other 'pod. Go back over ourselves."

"We should not. A presence on _Treleishkah_ could be useful should _Enterprise_ require repairs. We should prioritise establishing communication with _Enterprise_ which is what Ensigns Mayweather and Boschmann will do."

Malcolm narrowed his eyes, but could not assemble an effective counter argument. "I'm going to the 'pod to check the scans again. I should wake her before I go, in case something happens to you."

T'Pol arched an eyebrow congenially."I do not believe I am in any immediate danger from my injuries. Unlike Phlox, human doctors require frequent sleep to be effective and I suspect Dr Harper has been largely awake since Ensign Sato's first seizure on Monday."

"When is it now?"

"The early hours of Thursday."

Malcolm blinked in surprise and did some calculations regarding his own sleep. "Thursday...? I think I got some sleep on Tuesday in quarantine and a little bit more after you..." He trailed off.

T'Pol studied him closely. "Perhaps instead of checking the scans again, you should get some rest as well?"

"Why do you people keep trying to get me to rest?" Malcolm asked testily.

T'Pol's expressive eyebrow conveyed haughtiness, as she said, her arctic voice much recovered,"You do not look well."

Malcolm was caught by surprise, by the irony and by his own exhaustion. His response was unguarded and softly spoken. "I don't _feel_ well. I haven't for a while. Back past Monday, anyway."

T'Pol considered him through a long silence. Then she spoke, her voice warmer, "It has not been long. You should rest now."

"I'll check the scans first, and then rest for a minute."

* * *

As she crept carefully through the corridors of _Enterprise_ , Hoshi fervently missed her scissors. She had decided that this probably was her _Enterprise_ , all the little details were too good, but clearly the whole crew had been replaced. Her friends were gone, lost to her, and her only protection was that these imposters didn't seem to yet know she was on to them. Still, at any moment word of her escape from sickbay would spread and she had left her only weapon buried in the hopefully dead fake-Archer.

As much as she wanted to help _Enterprise_ 's real crew, her first priority had to be survival and for now, unarmed as she was, that meant hiding. Mostly, she tried to stay out of sight of the impostors. There were mercifully few of them, most presumably occupied with repairing whatever sabotage they had visited upon _Enterprise_. She did ensure that she was seen a few times, but always walking in the opposite direction of her true destination. During these pantomimes she kept her expression calm and friendly, and artfully positioned her hands to conceal the blood flecks left by fake-Phlox and fake-Archer.

 _Why, how do you do, fake-Allison? Top of the morning to you, fake-MACOs..._

She had received a few odd looks, but no suspicious ones, and importantly, she had been _SEEN_ moving to the fore of the ship when her true destination was aft. Drawing closer to it, she stayed in the shadows left by the gaps in the emergency lighting. In less essential areas the lights were spotty, dim and flickering, and this was better still.

Finally, she arrived safely. She easily wrapped her narrow, delicate fingers around the edges of the access panel and pulled with all her surprising strength. Security codes were down with the computer so she needed only disconnect the hydraulic seal and force open the door. There were even helpful instructions printed on the back of the panel for just such an emergency.

Well, it seemed unlikely that Starfleet had considered _EXACTLY_ this emergency. The entire crew replaced by duplicate imposters. Hoshi wondered _how_ it could have possibly been accomplished. _When_ was easy, while she had been unconscious, probably the second time. But _why_ and _how_? And where is fake-Hoshi?

 _Maybe YOU are fake-Hoshi._

Hoshi shook her head at the thought. No. She knew at least she was real. And there was no fake-Hoshi. At least, not yet. Somehow she was different.

 _They need you for something._

The though terrified her. The Xindi had needed her. Stolen her. Used her. Infested her brain with subjugation. She set her jaw grimly. Something like that would not happen again.

She pulled at the door. Shoved her shoulder, her foot into the gap. Pulled it open. Climbed a ladder and opened a hatch.

The catwalk felt cool and deserted.

She was certain she would not be found here.

* * *

Alice Harper woke through the threads of an unsettling dream. The details flittered away forever even as she reached for them. Her surroundings were unfamiliar. She remembered with a start, and swung her attention to the Commander. With relief, she saw T'Pol settled and comfortable, seemly meditating, her beautiful face still. During her long post-surgical vigil, Alice had about deciphered the useful indicators on the Kreetassan medical monitors. The readings these displayed were currently unremarkable, so when she reached next for the medical scanner, it was mainly to check the chronometer. To see how long she had slept.

"About four hours," a voice said sharply, causing Alice to jump.

 _Bleeding psychic limey bastard!_

The lieutenant was watching her. His posture was wary and coiled.

Alice tried offering a friendly smile, but she had trouble concentrating on it and was not sure she'd pulled it off. Certainly, it had no apparent effect.

"It's always a bit of a gamble, a kip I mean, isn't it? I think I feel worse than before..." The words tumbled uselessly from her mouth, eliciting no response. He only watched her. Somehow both stoic and changeable. Maddening. She usually liked quiet, complicated people. She was probably such a person herself. At present, however, she was dangerously under-caffeinated for this sort of thing.

She stood up and stretched slightly. Her limbs ached and an intense, worrying, pain throbbed down the length of her back. He continued staring.

She willed herself not to care if she'd been snoring. Or drooling. She had never liked the indignity of sleeping in front of people. Except other doctors, she supposed, which was both a necessity and a different thing. Other doctors understood the grey exhaustion of endless shifts, all sense of day and night lost. And lately, of course, she'd mostly worked with Vulcans. Maintaining dignity around her Vulcan teammates had been a useless exercise she'd abandoned almost immediately. They were just better at it. For the first time in her life, she had been the team affable buffoon. And also, just as unfamiliar, she had been the team _people person_. The one who talked to patients, to parents. To people whose lives had changed forever since breakfast.

She wondered who she was now.

"Any word from _Enterprise_ yet?" she asked holding her voice smooth.

The lieutenant shook his head slowly, eyes locked on hers.

Alice had long ago learned there was no point being resentful when people didn't trust her. It was not an unfamiliar experience. With this, her Vulcan mentors had been more helpful than her human ones.

"Try to objectify people's responses to you. You are usually the best available person to help them, which is why you are asking to do so. You can only trust that they will realise it." Dr Tavrik had told her once, catching her shamefully tearful in a corridor, after a difficult patient's mistrust had led them frighteningly near to disaster.

"But what if I'm actually _not_ the best person to help them?"

Alice had sniffed in reply, wiping her eyes. Dr Tavrik, had given her a long look, shaded with almost inperceptable kindness. "You, Dr Harper, are not faulted with over-confidence."

 _You are not wrong there, Dr Tavrik,_ Alice thought now, at the memory. She missed him.

Toward Lieutenant Reed, she squared her shoulders. Project confidence, tell the truth, be as patient as you can afford to be. Accept that this is all you can do. "Lieutenant, you should get some more sleep yourself."

He scowled at her, but did, at long last, break his gaze. "I can't. Not yet. I need to get you all back to _Enterprise_."

Alice heard a slight waver in his voice. He suddenly sagged, as if a string had been cut somewhere within him. His eyes were dark ringed and hollow. This time she found herself take an unconscious step towards him. Then a conscious one. He did not spring when she placed a cautious hand on his arm. "You _need_ it though. There's nothing to do, and I promise to wake you should the slightest thing happen." She paused, then took a chance. "Would it help if I made it an order?"

He chuckled a little and it filled her with an odd delight. This time, Alice's smile came easily.

* * *

Travis flagged down a harried security Ensign.

"Did the Lieutenant come back with you?" she asked Travis.

Malcolm's diverse collection of staff had a habit of referring to him as _"THE"_ lieutenant, even when talking with outsiders, as if there could be no confusion. Travis found it weirdly endearing.

The security ensign looked put out when Travis shook his head. "No. Listen though. I need you to get a team to find Ensign Sato and like, confine her to quarters or something. She may have attacked some people. She could be dangerous."

The look he got in return was nakedly sceptical. Travis's reputation as the ship's practical joker didn't help matters either.

" _Hoshi_ Sato?"

"Yes."

The security ensign cocked her head, squinting suspiciously, and asked, "Not some new person called _also_ Ensign Sato?"

"No. Hoshi Sato." Travis insisted. His head was spinning giddily again.

The ensign remained unconvinced. "Some new person who, say, weighs more than a Labrador when soaking wet?"

"Why would a Labrador be soaking wet?"

"No, I meant Ensign Sato soaking wet... although Labradors do like to swim... never mind..."

The imagery under discussion was not helping Travis focus. _Dammit this is serious! Concentrate!_ He summoned his best approximation of a commanding tone. "Ensign, I am being perfectly serious. Ensign Sato is dangerous. She has reportedly badly injured Captain Archer and Dr Phlox. You need to find and detain her immediately."

This had the desired effect. The security ensign's demeanour changed immediately and with a curt nod she hurried off. However, the effort of the brief exchange had left Travis exhausted. He swung a leaden leg, plunging again into forward motion.

Tell Tucker.

Go to Bridge

 _...promises to keep... miles to go..._

Trip was in the transporter room amongst a confounding array of conduits and equipment. Travis didn't even try to understand what he was doing. "Are you really going to try to beam them through that interference?" asked Travis, who shared T'Pol's distaste for the contraption.

Trip shook his head thoughtfully, not looking up. His burned hand was bleeding slightly. "No. I was but...no. I'm going to beam a PADD over. Less... risky,"

Travis nodded. "I'm going to go up to the bridge, okay? I'm not even sure who's up there..."

"Good idea," Trip answered with a nod, again without looking up.

He hadn't asked even about Archer or Phlox, Travis realised. Maybe he should tell him what Liz said anyway, given that it had been mostly good, if guarded, news. With a flash of inexplicable anger, came the decision, _no_. If Tucker wanted to stew Travis would let him.

Grimly, Travis exited the transporter room and stalked towards the access ladder leading to bridge. _You know what...? When I get there? I'm sitting in the damn chair!_

His body was too exhausted to even continue protesting. Mechanically he climbed rung after rung, the pain in his limbs of no concern at all.

At last he made it. He was on the bridge.

There was a dead body.

And a blade at his throat.


	11. Chapter 11

He felt much better.

As she'd promised, Alice had not murdered him in his sleep. Neither had T'Pol succumbed to her injuries. Moreover, their joint, repeated suggestion that he get some proper sleep already had, _entirely predictably in retrospect_ , been wise. He'd struggled with it at first, tossing and twitching as he had for days. Eventually, Alice had offered him a sedative from her hoard, _very mild_ she'd assured, and that had done the trick. It had been six hours, much longer than he'd planned, but he did not regret a minute of it. The hellish mental fog of the previous, however-many, days had lifted. Looking over at them, chatting companionably about Surak, no less, Malcolm found it hard to understand why he had found Alice Harper so menacing.

They'd obviously noted he was awake, but were pretending not to, extending him a few moments of apparent privacy. He used them to rub his eyes and face with his hands, smooth his hair and clothes. He was momentarily surprised by the stubble on his cheeks. _What day was it again?_

"Good morning," he said, slightly foolishly, when he was ready.

Alice, apparently the forgiving sort, looked over with a warm slightly lopsided smile. T'Pol offered her far more sophisticated equivalent, a stately raised eyebrow and a patrician nod. Her complexion looked almost normal. Her long meditation must have done her good.

"I'm going to the 'pod, to check on _Enterprise_ ," he said. It would presumably be obvious to them he was even more interested in using the 'pods facilities to relieve himself, but they only nodded.

A few minutes later, he was booting up the scanner, although his own eyes were enough to tell him that _Enterprise_ was still dark in space. The scans were more encouraging. There were faint energy signatures now registering, indicating some systems were running, although still, alas, not life support or the communications transmitter. He darkened the 'pod and delightedly saw he could now make _Enterprise_ out, by faint lighting in some of her windows. He almost laughed aloud at his own remembered panic, the imaginings of disaster, everybody dead, Travis and Boschmann last of all.

 _See? It's fine. Everyone's fine._

In the dark of the 'pod, the blue light of the transporter was startling. Malcolm swung around. Expecting a person, it took him a few moments to notice the PADD at his feet.

 _Clever._

With buoyant spirits, he picked it up and hurried back to the medical bay.

The mood there had changed slightly. "So because our antibiotic supplies were limited you used them to prevent a hypothetical infection in me, rather than treat one you already knew you had?" T'Pol was asking Alice in her arcticly calm voice.

Alice squirmed slightly. "It's not as stupid as it sounds... No offense, Commander, but I know what I'm doing here. You have multiple traumatic injuries, fractures and organ damage; an infection would be a big deal for you." Harper was waggling a hypospray in an attempt at doctorial imperiousness. The effect was somewhat marred by the unmistakable grimace of discomfort it caused.

"Are you alright?" Malcolm asked Alice, courteously, announcing his presence.

She nodded brightly. "Yes, fine. The scratch thingy on my back has just gotten a bit infected. Earth Staphylococcus. Nothing lethal, or dramatic in any way."

He eyed her suspiciously, moving for the medical scanner.

She sighed a little. "Really... it's fine. What's that?" she asked pointing to the PADD, probably to distract him.

Malcolm had forgotten. "It's a message from _Enterprise_. It was transported onto the shuttle."

T'Pol and Harper both startled at the news

"What does it say?" T'Pol asked

"Is that blood on it?" Harper asked, more quietly.

Malcolm answered T'Pol. "I'm not sure yet."

While Malcolm supposed he was still technically in Command, he handed the PADD to T'Pol, who studied it with typical, irritating, patience, verifying its authenticity before even turning it on. To avoid getting annoyed, Malcolm turned his attention back to Harper. "So you'll be fine without antibiotics?"

She nodded, most of her attention on T'Pol and the PADD. "For a few days, sure. I'm otherwise healthy. I'm not risking much more than an interesting scar and I've been meaning to cultivate an air of mystique anyway. Dr Phlox will have to do all the surgeries for a week or two though..."

"Actually, Doctor," T'Pol said frowning at the PADD. " _THAT_ could be a problem."

* * *

He probably should have killed him. He probably should kill him. Holding Mayweather captive for any length of time was a very different proposition to holding the weepy, terrified Tseng and not one for which Wendall was really prepared. The silvery tape which he had found at Tactical seemed to be holding for now, but Wendall had no idea how long it would take Mayweather to stretch it and escape his bindings. If that was about to happen he _WOULD_ have to kill him. He would be no match for him in a fist fight. The trouble was, Wendall found he didn't really want kill Mayweather. Lazlo had been a geologist. He did not need geologists. He would need pilots.

Before Lazlo, he had not killed before. Not directly. Weapons systems he'd designed, built, and worked to improve had killed people. Because of those systems, people who would have been alive were dead and also other people who would have been dead were alive. The accounting of that was neither his concern nor his interest. His concern was the crafting, the honing, the _perfecting_. He was a creator, not a destroyer. Until today, he himself had never been called to press one of those triggers, and certainly never before to plunge a knife into someone's throat. Now he had killed, and he found he did not much like it. So, if Wendall could help it, Travis Mayweather would not die by his hand.

"You should stop struggling," he told Mayweather, who was making no effort to hide his attempts to stretch his restraints and break free.

Inspiration struck Wendall and he continued. "I won't harm you. Or her, if you do as you are told. If you don't though..." He let the threat dangle in the air, immensely enjoying the arch tone of his own voice.

To his delight, Mayweather's eyes flicked to Irene Tseng and his more obvious struggles ceased. Wendall, victorious, captured and locked the controls for another system to the bridge. Not many to go now. Mayweather, defeated, pondered the situation silently for a moment.

"Ensign Wendall, isn't it?" Mayweather asked. His voice was painfully artless. Wendall had to fight a giddy urge to pat him on the head.

"That's right!" Wendall said, cheerfully.

"You work with Malcolm, right?"

This punctured Wendall's mood. If there was one impending death which Wendall felt kind of bad about, it was Reed's. But, apart from a faint hope that he could complete his plan to abscond with _Enterprise_ before Reed made it back from the Kreetassan ship, it was likely unavoidable. He'd rather not think about it. Still, no sense in letting Mayweather know that.

"Sure do!" Wendall answered, in approximately the same tone as before.

His bid at subtlety apparently exhausted, Mayweather asked, "So what is this about?"

He wanted Wendall to tell him the plan.

 _I should TOTALLY 'monologue'. When will I ever get the chance again?_

It was with real regret that Wendall shook his head. He patted Mayweather's stiffened shoulder. "I'm sorry my friend. Your schemes are for nothing. For I am more genre-savvy than thou!" Wendall said, consciously channelling Archer's speechifying persona.

 _This shit is fun! GAZELLES!_

The pilot was too stupid to get the joke. "Genre-savvy? What the fuck is wrong with you? Lazlo is dead!" Mayweather said, furious.

Tseng punctuated the simpleminded sentiment with a loud, throaty sob.

Wendall laughed and laughed.

* * *

T'Pol's emotions were writhing. She could barely blanket them with self-control. Her surface was thin as silk. From what she could tell, Reed and Harper were doing no better, both were drained of colour and silent.

Harper spoke first. "Perhaps it's not so bad... not all stab wounds are life-threatening. Some don't even need surgery. And as for 'gouged', gouged is not really a medical term... it might not mean..." Her statement had started fairly timorously and had only fared worse as it went along. It petered out gloomily.

Reed blinked at her.

T'Pol watched them both, longingly seeking her centre. She was horrified at the PADDs contents, but separately, she was consoled by the thought of its author. He was safe, and writing to her, just minutes ago. The two thoughts were at war. Acid and balm on her soul.

Harper combated the silence again. "Sometimes eye injuries _LOOK_ really dramatic to laypeople, but actually a good ocular surgeon can..." She trailed off once more.

Reed didn't answer. T'Pol thought she should. "Commander Tucker can tend towards the dramatic," she said, hoping her voice sounded cooler to the ears of others than her own.

"Does he?" Harper asked her, obviously perplexed.

T'Pol found she understood her confusion and swallowed. "Perhaps less so since…"

 _Elizabeth_

"...less so of late," she said, trying to explain, realising too late what it would cost. Her body was suddenly racked with sobs, the jarring movements aggravating her injuries. Pain stacked on pain.

They both reached out in comfort. Reed took her hand, Harper touched her shoulder. They wore near identical expressions of awkward sympathy, shared a forgetfulness of the impropriety of their actions. She was a superior officer. She was a Vulcan. _Humans could be so strange._

"Doctor, I would like more pain relief now." T'Pol said when the sobs subsided. The relevant hypospray was ready in Harper's pocket, administered in bare seconds.

T'Pol still held Malcolm's hand, reluctant to let go. He was doing a fair job of pretending not to notice. T'Pol wiped her face with her free hand. She was, of course she was, somewhat mortified to have lost her emotional control in front of others. But, she realised, it could have been far worse. These two particular people could be trusted to keep it secret, she knew, without her even having to ask. One out of professional ethics, one out of friendship. These two people understood the ground from which her dignity grew.

"We need to get back to _Enterprise_ ," Malcolm said sombrely, after a moment.

T'Pol knew he was right. They were wasting time.

* * *

 _The hardest thing I've ever done._

Trip grimaced. What would that even _BE_ at this point? Lately, it seemed there was no ceiling on that idea. Lately the hard things were stacking up.

 _Like turtles!_

And then, without warning, he was crying. Laughing and crying and choking about his beautiful, dead, daughter and stacking turtle books he'd never read her.

Fixing the transporter had not been so hard. The self-immolating main computer had left it relatively untouched. Walking back to sickbay, though, towards Jon's possible violent death, towards Phlox's possibly permanent disability, that was pretty fucking hard. Jon's wordless, gasping pain, Phlox's stunned, trembling silence and Liz Cutler's jittery, near-exhausted courage were all waiting there for him in sickbay.

But the absolute worst thing waiting in that room was _Ensign Fabrecia Boschmann_.

 _Ensign Fabrecia Boschmann_ was going to look at him, and call him sir, and ask him what she should do.

Because in addition to being a man crying in a corridor about his beautiful dead baby, he was also a commander, in command of a starship.

 _Broken. All broken ._

And _Ensign Fabrecia Boschmann_ with her _SIR_ , and her _QUESTIONS_ , was waiting for him in sickbay. Where he'd sat with Elizabeth. Sat as a thousand hateful, stubborn, treacherous hopes had kindled and died. All those tiny, unspoken, hopes had been liars and they had never stopped coming. _Until the end._

But sickbay was where Jon was dying, and where Phlox was sitting, and where Ensign Fabrecia Boschmann was waiting, and that was where he had to go.

 _King of the Pond!_

And _Ensign Fabrecia Boschmann_ , because the universe hated _him_ , personally, had huge, beautiful eyes. And Elizabeth had huge, beautiful eyes. _So beautiful_. And he would have read her stories about stacking turtles. He would have made her stacking turtles to play with. Would have carved them out of wood. Would have painted them bright colours, even though they would look better raw, because brightly-coloured things are what kids like.

 _You wanted to be a wonderful father for her and you never got the chance._

Who had said that? He couldn't remember. So many people had said so many things. Someone had asked to see a photo, had said Elizabeth had beautiful eyes, had been told about the turtles, and had then said that. Trip couldn't remember who. But whoever it had been was right. He would never make those turtles. He would never see those eyes again.

But he would _remember_ them. If he should grow old, if his mind should fail, if he should forget everything else, he would somehow make sure he remembered Elizabeth's beautiful eyes.

He would carry the memory with him.

He would go to sickbay. He would be called _sir_ , he would save the damn ship, he would be worthy of all of the _Ensign Fabrecia Boschmanns_ of _Enterprise_.

And he would carry Elizabeth's memory with him.

* * *

 _First Hoshi, now this guy. What the fuck?_

Travis was still trying to stretch out the tape binding his wrists, although more subtly since Wendall had threatened Tseng. It was mostly useless, which Travis grimly supposed, was not surprising. If Malcolm was going to go to the trouble to hide duct tape at Tactical, in case of emergency, then he would definitely go to the trouble of getting _really fucking GOOD_ duct tape.

 _Malcolm was acting weird too, actually..._

"Almost done," Wendall called, that maniacal cheerfulness still in his voice.

 _And that massacre on Treleishkah..._

"There's still time to end this," Travis said quietly, trying to catch and hold Wendall's large, unblinking eyes.

To his surprise, Wendall seemed to think about it. "Actually, I'm not sure there is." Wendall sounded almost sad when he said it.

There was something _there_ , in that sadness, Travis realised. But to his dismay, he didn't know what that might be. Or what to do with it. _Should have taken a hostage negotiation elective_ , Travis thought.

"I'm thirsty..." Wendall said suddenly. He paused, scowling a little at Travis. "Irene... go get me some water from the ready room."

She obeyed, shooting Travis a wild furtive look as she scurried past. A loud smash was heard from the ready room a few moments later.

Wendall had time to roll his eyes before she returned carrying two glasses of water. "I'm amazed you managed not to break as many as two glasses, Irene. Well done! Who is the second one for?"

Irene Tseng's hands were shaking badly. "Ensign Mayweather," she mumbled. "He looks thirsty."

Wendall gave her a long look. "I hope you don't mumble like that when it's time to take my message to Archer, Irene. An occasion like that requires _gravitas_. Do you know what that is, Irene?"

She shook her head, eyes on the floor and handed Wendall one of the glasses.

He eyed her shrewdly. "Give me the other one. And go give this one to Mayweather. You'll have to hold the glass for him."

Still avoiding Wendall's eyes, Irene did as he'd said. After watching Travis take the first few sips of water, Wendall lost interest in the scene. Irene's badly shaking hands spilled water down Travis's uniform.

"Sorry sir," she mumbled and began wiping at it with her hand.

She leaned over him and Travis was about to tell her not to worry, when two things happened. She locked eyes with him, hers filled with cold fury, and she dropped a large shard of broken glass into his bound hands. She then broke his gaze and scurried back to the communications console.

Travis closed his fingers around the glass, testing it. It was sharp enough to slice through his skin with even light pressure. He turned it in his hands so it was both positioned against the gaffer tape and also hidden from view. Carefully, because a moderately bleeding cut would give him away, he pressed a sharp edge into the tape and sawed.

While he felt emboldened by the makeshift weapon he now held, Travis still hoped the situation could be resolved peacefully. At the very least, he needed to try to slow Wendall down or get him to open up a little about his plan.

Doing the best he could to conceal his occupied hands from Wendall's eyeline, Travis cleared his throat. "Look, Wendall. Maybe we can help each other... let me talk to Commander Tucker, see if I can..."

Wendall interrupted, looking up from his work station, intensely confused. "Tucker? Why would I bother talking to Tucker?"

"He's in command. Captain Archer's been stabbed," Travis said, before really considering whether revealing this piece of information was wise.

Tseng audibly gasped, but Travis paid her no attention. Instead he was sickly fascinated by Wendall's expression, a sort of befuddled delight.

"Stabbed? About time! Who did it?"

Travis froze. "We don't know," he lied, his face falling even as he said it, knowing it would not pass muster.

Wendall sauntered over to him, flicked open the penknife, and spun it around in his hand, the pad of his index finger pressed to the point. Flicking his eyes obviously to Irene Tseng and back to Travis, he asked again, in a low voice, " _Who_ stabbed Archer?"

Travis sighed, doubting Wendall would find the truth any more convincing. "We think it was Ensign Sato," he said dejectedly, watching Wendall's face for its reaction.

It was not what Travis expected.

Wendall nodded, thoughtfully. "Yeah, that makes sense," he said agreeably, returning to his station. Travis gaped after him.

 _THAT makes SENSE?_

Travis thought furiously. Why would _Hoshi_ make sense as an attacker?

"That's it," Wendall called triumphantly. "It's show time, Irene! Do you remember your lines? Now as Ensign Mayweather has helpfully informed us, _Tucker_ is your audience, not Archer. And I suggest, if the Captain _has_ been offed, then you will find him sulking about it in sickbay. Off you go now."

Travis was scarcely paying attention.

 _Why wouldn't Hoshi stabbing Archer be surprising?_

He had the sense of something, something important, just beyond his reach.

 _Hoshi, Wendall... and Malcolm. Treleishkah..._

Travis gasped. An image had suddenly formed in his mind. An alien shape hanging in the black of space.

 _The beacon. The distress beacon._

He needed to tell Trip. He twisted around to catch Irene before he hurried off the bridge, wondering how he could get her a message without Wendall noticing.

But it was too late, she'd already gone.

* * *

It was all still there!

Hoshi Sato smiled in delight. Years ago they had run the ship from this catwalk. The visible components had been all stripped out, but the wiring, the connections were all still here, not yet removed.

Poor Trip had been "getting around to it" for a while, now.

It wasn't much. It wasn't as though she could turn the tables on the fake-crew and regain control of _Enterprise_ ; _e_ ven with the computer compromised, her security codes would only allow her so much. But she could send a signal. If she had to, she could send a signal to a critical system at a critical moment.

And she would. She would avenge her friends, for surely the fake-crew had killed them.

 _Must have._

She would not let their murderers take _Enterprise_. Steal her, and use her against Earth.

She would destroy her first.

 _If_ they tried to activate the warp nacelles, _then_ , before she burned to death, Hoshi would take them all with her.


	12. Chapter 12

T'Pol wasn't heavy, and, in the slightly-below-Earth gravity now pervading _Treleishkah_ , they managed the stretcher easily between them. Three pairs of eyes slid guiltily over the remains in the corridor. They each remembered what they had come here to do in the first place, and found a moment to be grateful that, unlike the butchered Kreetassans, they had gotten the chance to leave.

Malcolm fervently hoped he would never have to set foot on the grisly vessel again.

They gently placed the stretcher down in the shuttle. Immediately, T'Pol moved to sit up, stopped by Alice's hand on her shoulder. "Don't sit up; you'll pop your stitches."

T'Pol gave her a look. "Competently applied sutures should be able to withstand the force to which I intended to subject them," she said coolly.

Alice smiled. "Why don't you let me help you anyway? Just in case I am incompetent?"

T'Pol acquiesced with her typical grace. Alice helped the commander to the chair she indicated, then retrieved the silky Kreetassan blanket which had been covering T'Pol's splinted legs and covering them again, with a practiced flick.

Malcolm supposed they were just stealing the blanket at this point. He himself was contemplating the dark landing on _Enterprise_ which he had ahead of him.

"Why _DID_ you elect to send both pilots back on the same shuttle?" the now settled T'Pol asked him, as if reading his thoughts.

Malcolm, with some consternation, realised only the truth would do. "At the time, I was rather convinced that we had a spy, or some other sort of hostile agent, in the party, masquerading as an ornery Scottish neurosurgeon."

Alice blinked. "Really? Who exactly did you imagine I was spying for?" she asked affably.

Malcolm supposed he was glad she was taking it so well. "The Klingons, probably."

T'Pol narrowed her eyes at him inscrutably, but offered no reply.

When Malcolm had successfully landed the 'pod next to Travis's on the depressurised deck he exhaled loudly. After a few calming breaths, Malcolm startled at a hollow tapping on a window. A partially-illuminated Fabrecia Boschmann, clad in an EV suit, theatrically mimed that she was going to put more suits into the shuttle's air-lock. Malcolm plastered a smile on his face and nodded to show he understood. Behind him, Alice waved uncertainly at her friend. T'Pol merely looked on imperiously.

The airlock finally repressurised, Malcolm and Alice retrieved the suits, momentarily flummoxed by the sizes Boschmann had supplied until realising one was purposefully over-sized to fit over the splints on T'Pol' legs.

"This is going to hurt," Harper said regretfully to T'Pol.

"Please proceed, Doctor," T'Pol replied calmly, bearing the ensuing discomfort stoically and, when suited, positioning herself back on the stretcher.

Boschmann's help more than made up for _Enterprise_ 's slightly higher gravity. Through the airlock, they proceeded straight to sickbay, not bothering to remove the suits.

Before they'd quite arrived, Trip ran up to meet them in the corridor. Briefly squeezing Malcolm's shoulder as he passed, Trip gently swept T'Pol off the stretcher into his arms, turned, and carried her back towards sickbay. She relaxed slightly into his chest, lifted her arms around his neck.

Alice immediately dropped her handle of the now empty stretcher and jogged off ahead of them toward sickbay. Fabrecia stood still, smiling broadly after Trip and T'Pol. Malcolm noticed that Trip's hand had left a stain of blood on the shoulder of his suit.

* * *

It was disorientating not really being able to see. His visual world was rolling, red clouds. He could hear his bat chittering mournfully a short distance away and he wished he could go to her, feed her some crickets or Treshu worms, and maybe, just for a few moments, stroke her silky fur. It was much easier, though, to marshal calm around himself without that sickening, thundering pain.

Liz's earlier fury at Travis had sparked incandescently. Frizzling, electric fury. Fury on _his_ behalf. And yet, _poor Travis_. He wasn't trained as a medic, and Phlox could have asked him for pain relief at any time. He wondered why he hadn't thought to do so. The shock of it, he supposed. _How odd._

He wondered if this was his world now. If he would live forever in the churning red. And what would that mean?

Perhaps, whatever it meant, whatever happened now, it was time to go home. He had not really chosen this life. He had fallen into it, a spur of the moment choice, a single patient, five years ago.

And, the Captain, his friend. His friend, now injured.

Phlox's worry twisted in his chest and he felt helpless. He could do little beyond listen to the familiar, seemingly reassuring beeps from the monitoring equipment and Liz's occasional, unprompted updates.

He'd lost his voice somewhere.

He could do nothing but wait.

The hiss of the door heralded the generic commotion of people entering sickbay.

"Any empty bed is grand."

He heard the voice he had been waiting for, and also dreading. His bat changed her frequency, she bawled and shrieked. He heard solicitous murmurings, answered with gracious replies. _Commander T'Pol_ , he realised.

Then he heard Harper again, speaking warmly, "Been running with scissors, have you, Captain? Well, let's see then."

Archer then murmured something Phlox couldn't hear. He heard Harper sigh theatrically before replying. "Well, a'right. Just cause Liz has got you so nicely stabilised here. But just so ye know, I'm not remotely impressed by the handsome, self-sacrificing Captain act."

Phlox heard her approach. Sit down on the bed with him.

"He's had scissors through his diaphragm and part of his liver has wandered up into his chest, and he is _STILL_ insisting I tend to you first." She was obviously directing her voice for Archer's benefit. Humour of some kind, Phlox supposed. A _bedside manner_ of sorts. Archer must truly be stable, though, if she was attempting jokes. Phlox felt queasy relief.

"I'm going to remove the bandages now for a bit. You've not had any anti-inflammatory, or antibiotics, yet? Just the analgesic?"

Phlox managed a verbal affirmative, not wanting to move his head.

Harper carefully unwrapped the dressings from his face. "Liz, would you mind turning the lights down a bit for us? It's like Blackpool in autumn in here..."

It was still painfully bright as she carefully removed the last dressings. He could hear a quiet trill from a scanner, a few tongue clicks from Harper. Phlox steeled himself, tried to prepare. When the truth spilled out, quickly and calmly, he exhaled, lightheaded.

"So, Liz about had it right. Moderate hyphaema, and anterior lens dislocation in the left eye, some uveitis to go with it, of course. Right eye, we're a little better off, large partial retinal detachment with some damage to the iris, but the lens is in place. Your sclera are a bit worse for wear, but the corneas are surprisingly good and both globes are intact. Fair bit of periocular swelling, as I'm sure you can feel for yourself, but no orbital fractures. So, it _WILL_ mean a procedure or three, but you're going to be alright in the end."

She squeezed his hand in support. Phlox did not really like to be touched socially, but, in the eye of the strange red storm, he found the gesture peculiarly anchoring.

"See? You're going to be fine," Liz said, her voice tearful with relief. She continued to Harper, "So what do we _do_? Anti-inflammatories and antibiotics right? Topically?"

"Aye, for now. Also, some systemic anti-inflammatories for the peri-orbital swelling, and some sort of cycloplegic for the right eye. And we'll have to watch IOP pretty carefully. I can reattach the retina, but you don't want me for the lens. Best get a specialist. Unless, of course, there's some beastie in this dread menagerie of yours that'll burrow into an eyeball and spin up some new ciliary zonules out of its silk?"

Phlox heard someone snort, but again, he was not really sure he understood the joke. "To my knowledge, Doctor Harper, evolution has never produced such a creature."

"No, I'd guess not. Pity though... So, a specialist, then." Harper raised her voice and directed it across the room. "Commanders? One of you? Can I expect that we'll be limping back to Earth within a few days? Dr Phlox here could use the services of an ophthalmic surgeon."

"Yeah, I expect so." Tucker's voice was calm but tired, from over near where Commander T'Pol had been settled. Phlox hadn't realised he was in the room.

"There we are, then. Sorted. I know a good eye-guy, actually..."

"I have a few connections in the medical field, as well, my dear," Phlox said imperiously. He was feeling more like his normal self and his normal self hated being a patient.

Harper's reply was infuriatingly smug, "Aye, right? I know Polomo Iskander. He owes me a favour actually... fixed his nephew's brachial plexus. I'm not bad at brachial plexuses..."

Phlox _DETESTED_ being a patient.

Harper was apparently done preening though. "Right, Liz. We've got surgery, on the Captain, no less. Can you please set us up for a diaphragmatic repair? Your chest tube is beautiful, but we can't stand for bits of liver floating around in chest cavities, getting ideas above their station. Wait a second; someone's missing. What happened to...?"

"I thought you said you couldn't do surgery cause of the infection thingy." A new voice, Lieutenant Reed, asked dubiously, interrupting her.

"I'm not over-burdened with options, Lieutenant. I'll keep the EV suit on and run peri-operative antibiotics, and that will have to do. We're fresh out of doctors. Besides, how else will I report the Captain's inner workings to my Klingon handlers?"

Phlox heard Reed sigh and mutter something under his breath.

"Wait, what? What about Klingons?" That was Commander Tucker, sounding like he'd not been giving the conversation his full attention.

"I don't know what to tell you, Commander. Apparently, I'm vaguely suspicious? And, it did not escape my notice that you called be ornery, Lieutenant. If you really must, I much prefer _cantankerous_. There's _dignity_ in cantankerous, _heft_ to it."

"Well quite," Reed replied wryly. "Which is why I chose _ornery_. I don't think you've really earned _cantankerous_. Maybe you'll age into it."

Phlox pondered the baffling impenetrability of human humour and the sickbay door hissed open again. Whatever levity pervaded in the room suddenly died. Phlox heard the new arrival sob, raggedly.

The he heard T'Pol's cultured voice, tempered with concern. "Ensign Tseng, you appear highly distressed. What is the matter?"

* * *

" _Wendall_? Are you sure?" Malcolm asked Irene Tseng.

Again. He knew that he was infuriating her, but his brain just couldn't fit around the concept. They stood in the corridor outside sickbay with Trip. Alice had insisted that any talk of hijacking, mutinies, and sabotage be taken out of Archer's earshot while she prepped him for surgery.

"But, _Wendall_?" He couldn't help it.

Tseng actually bared her teeth a little.

"Malcolm..." Trip said, tiredly.

"And did _he_...?" Malcolm waved vaguely towards sickbay.

Trip seemed to brace himself before answering. "No... That was Hoshi..."

 _"HOSHI?"_

Malcolm swallowed. Last he'd heard she'd been in a coma. He hadn't even been worried when she wasn't in sickbay. He'd just assumed Phlox had worked a miracle and discharged her before...

"Hoshi?"

"Yes."

"Hoshi?"

 _"MALCOLM!"_ Trip snapped at him. _"_ Could ya possibly save being dumbstruck for later? _Yes_ Wendall, _yes_ Hoshi. _Yes_ , Wendall is attempting to hijack the ship, _yes_ , he is currently holding Travis hostage. _Yes_ , Hoshi injured Phlox and stabbed Jon and is God knows where. I don't know what the fuck is going on around here, but _I need you to HELP me_."

Malcolm looked, with guilt, at his friend's worn face, at the hang of his shoulders. At least he'd been able to get T'Pol back for him.

He _and Alice_ had. Even though he thought she was...

 _pulses_

…Malcolm frowned. Something was pinging at the edge of his attention.

He was missing something.

 _pulses_

Something _important_.

"Pulses," he said aloud.

Trip pinched the bridge of his nose, his voice low. "What the hell are you...?"

Malcolm interrupted him. "What Hoshi and Wendall have in common. And me too maybe, wasting time stalking Harper... Do we have an analysis of the distress beacon handy? I don't remember seeing the final scan..."

Trip and Tseng's looks suggested he'd lost it, but he felt more strangely certain by the moment.

Trip threw up his hands. "Sure, _why not_? I should have the report in my... here..." Trip tossed him a PADD, which Malcolm immediately began to search through. "... now can I get you to PLEASE focus on the..."

"Ah!"

Something about his tone silenced Trip. Malcolm stared intently at the metallurgical analysis of the distress beacon, checking it, checking it again.

The pattern was familiar. He'd seen it before.

He'd seen it sticking out of his leg.

"Malcolm, what is it?"

Malcolm slowly raised his eyes to Trip's. "It's _Romulan_."


	13. Chapter 13

**Author note: This chapter contains lethal violence.**

* * *

Malcolm debated the phase pistol. Leaving it behind seemed like the stupidest thing in the world. How could it _possibly_ be wrong to bring a phase pistol to a knife fight? But, according to Tseng, Wendall had easily got the jump on Travis, had _KNOWN_ he was coming. Maybe Malcolm could do better, knowing what he was heading into, but maybe he could not. Maybe he'd be killed immediately and arm Wendall with a phase pistol in the process. That might cost even more lives in the armed assault which would inevitably follow. A brief hope that he would be able to resolve the situation with the now functioning transporter were dashed upon finding that the operating system had been hopelessly corrupted by a virus transmitted from the bridge. Even assuming they could somehow wrest back the internal sensors required for a transporter lock, transporting Travis off the bridge with corrupted transporter software would be a likely death sentence. Transporting Wendall off the bridge was no more acceptable to Malcolm.

Wendall was _ill_.

"It could potentially be an extension of their Telepresence technology..." T'Pol had conceded once they'd moved the conversation back into sickbay. "... Transmitting conditioning, triggering, or manipulating cognitive cues over light-years of space concealed in an audio signal, exacerbating existing neurological imbalances or instabilities. Crude, but potentially effective."

He was ill.

And if he was going to save Wendall, if no one else was going to die, he could not risk escalating the situation any further than absolutely necessary. If he was going to approach the bridge, against the explicit instructions Tseng had relayed, he would have to go alone. _Unarmed._

Very reluctantly, he left the phase pistol with the hastily assembled armed assault team, waiting, they hoped, at a non-alarming distance. He steered himself towards the access ladder, trying not to think about hypotheticals now abandoned, trying to focus on those to come. Trying not to think how exposed he would be climbing that ladder, and upon reaching the top of it.

"Lieutenant!"

Amazingly, it took him a moment to recognise her. "Ensign Boschmann. I'm rather busy at the moment..." He was harsher than he meant to be.

She set her jaw and started talking again. "Yes sir. Only Ensign... damn I've forgotten her name, she's security though, um... dark hair, pretty nose?" She looked at him expectantly.

Malcolm had no idea which of his staff had a pretty nose. He could only shake his head.

Boschmann sighed. "Doesn't matter I guess. But she said it was _VERY important_ that I tell Travis that three different people have seen Ensign Sato heading towards the front of the ship and she thinks that she might be heading for the bridge. Only I can't FIND Travis, and do you know where he is?"

Malcolm froze, trying to handle two radically different trains of thought at once. Firstly, Hoshi had been seen travelling in the direction of the bridge. Hoshi could well be up there by now too. Helping Wendall. He was now the only thing between Hoshi AND Travis AND Wendall and a potentially deadly, armed assault. Secondly, Fabrecia didn't know Travis was in danger. That wouldn't have been important right now, she'd only known him a week after all, except that she was standing right in front of him and he needed to lie, convincingly, to her face, right now.

"I haven't seen Travis since I got back. But you've told me about Hoshi, and thank you. Now I need you to go tell Commander Tucker. He's gone to the catwalk."

Fabrecia looked baffled, but, to his relief, successfully distracted. "He's gone _where_?"

"The warp nacelle."

"To fix it? Isn't life support more important right now?"

 _Oh bloody hell._ She was _arguing_ with him. Normally it would be a good moment for some 'I'm your superior officer' stuff, but he _WAS_ lying about Travis being in mortal danger. And yesterday, he'd thrown up on her shoes. There are limits.

Malcolm took a breath. "We have, and _don't panic_ , a tiny hijacking situation on the bridge..."

 _Crikey, but her eyes are huge_.

He hurried on, "...It sounds worse than it is. There is some infrastructure in the nacelle which can pull command functions from the bridge. He's gone to do that."

"Seems like a weird place to put that kind of thing..."

"You've no idea. Now, off you go."

She regarded him very sceptically, but, he supposed, minimising a hijacking crisis will do that. He tried to project an unconcerned impatience and turned his attention back to the ladder and the crucial, impossible task that waited at the top of it. He called upon his soul itself to hold his hands steady, and they were.

"Lieutenant?"

He didn't turn around. "Yes?"

"Which nacelle is it?"

 _New people!_

"Left."

"You mean _port_?"

"Right. I mean, yes! _Port_!"

She departed.

He climbed.

* * *

"Oh, I hoped they wouldn't be stupid."

To Travis's amazement, Wendall sounded genuinely disappointed. He was getting paler and twitchier by the moment.

Manipulating the sharp glass Tseng had given him was hard, but Travis felt like he was getting there. He had figured out how to scratch at, and tension the tape at the same time. It was slow work, it was good tape, but he was getting there. A few more minutes.

"Stupid?" he asked Wendall cautiously. Anything to slow him down.

"They are sending someone. Just one someone, so a negotiator I guess. I _TOLD_ them not to send anyone. It's pointless anyway. Negotiators are for crises, for hostage takers. Negotiations are for people that _need_ things. I don't need anything. I already have the ship. Why is everybody else so stupid?" Wendall was shaking his head, ostensibly aghast. "Got to speed up, I guess, if they aren't going to be rational. Good thing I've got the torpedoes ready to detonate. It would be a real shame to have to blow the ship up, though. She's a nice ship..."

Travis forced himself to stay calm, stick with the slow cautious movements he'd found most effective.

"... time to turn the warp engine back on. I know how to fly, I think, but you'll be here to help me if I get in trouble."

Travis blinked. "What do you mean turn the warp engine on? The main computer's down."

Wendall smiled benevolently at him, fiddling with the knife. "It's not down. It's LOCKED. But I've decrypted it." He punched something into his console and, almost immediately, Enterprise's bridge lit up. "... there see? Few minutes to warm up the core, power up the nacelles, and kill the negotiator, and we will be on our way. No more talking for you though."

With a sudden cat like movement, Wendall darted towards him. Expecting an attack, and suddenly short of air, it took Travis a moment to realise that he had not been injured, only gagged by a strip of tape. In that moment, he had unthinkingly squeezed his hand around the glass shard. The angry, throbbing pain was not so important as the slick rivulets of blood running out from his fingers which could only be seconds from dripping onto the floor, where they might be noticed.

Fortunately, Wendall was distracted by the approaching figure on the sensors. He readied his knife and moved toward the entrance to the bridge. "I wonder who it is? I didn't really want to kill anyone else..."

It felt to Travis like he couldn't pull enough air through his nose, and that he was suffocating. He tried desperately to tamp down upon the rising panic and keep his hands working to free himself, glass shard still sawing, gripped in his increasingly slippery fingers.

Ten interminable seconds later, Travis felt something snap in his bindings. He had worked through one layer. He rotated the glass shard slightly. It was now a even trickier to hold but he had a fresh edge to work with. He was certain he could hear the dull thuds drops of blood falling to the floor behind him. Even as he sawed, he stretched at the tape furiously, trying not to let the effort show on his face.

There was a second snap in Travis's bindings, a loosening. He changed tactics, pulling his left hand through with all his strength. The bones of his hands crunched together, the adhesive pulled painfully at his gradually as the tape was stretching and splitting, realisation was dawning. He was out of time. Even if he managed to get his bindings off, he wouldn't be able to keep Wendall away from the torpedo controls and the access ladder and force a surrender before the negotiator arrived. One way or another, a bloody confrontation was imminent and someone was about to die.

"Wendall?" A voice floated up from the access ladder.

Travis recognised it. Wendall obviously did too. For a second, his face contorted with regret, but then it settled, his eyes cold.

"Wendall, it's Malcolm. I just here to listen to you and keep everybody safe. It's just me, and I'm unarmed. Nobody else needs to get hurt."

A slight, predatory smile formed on Wendall's face. "Okay, Lieutenant, Come on up. I'll hear you out."

"Are you okay, Wednall? Are you injured? Does anyone need medical attention," Malcolm's voice replied.

Glancing at Lazlo's body, Travis felt an unhinged laugh form and die in his throat. He pulled, desperately, so close to free. Now, he allowed the strain to show on his face. All Wendall's attention was on Malcolm's gradual approach.

"If you want to talk, Lieutenant, you'll come up. I won't hurt you, you have my word."

"What about Travis?"

"Or Travis. If you come up here."

Malcolm's next question was baffling. "And Hoshi? Is she up there? Can I talk to her?"

Wendall's face twisted, lips curling against his teeth. "No. She's not here. And why would you want to talk to her anyway? I'm the one with the knife; I'm the one who can breach the core, or detonate the torpedoes, or fly us into a star. _YOU NEED TO TALK TO ME_!"

When Malcolm didn't answer immediately, Wendall continued speaking quickly and viciously. "Get on up here, Lieutenant. You've got ten seconds or I'll detonate some torpedoes. Kill _everybody_."

"Wendall, please. I want to understand this, I want to help..."

"GET UP HERE!" Wendall shouted, poised, knife ready. "I will do it. I'm one key stroke away."

Travis knew Malcolm couldn't take the chance. Wouldn't. With a final, despairing tug, Travis's right hand was free. He untangled himself, and began to sprint.

With considerable speed, Malcolm Reed launched himself onto the bridge, his eyes scanning frantically. Wendall stabbed viciously with his wicked little blade; at just the same moment, Travis swung his hand, readjusting his grip on the shard of glass.

Blood sprayed into Travis's eyes.

* * *

Someone was coming.

She needed a weapon.

She reached into a panel, loosened a component of some kind. A secondary regulator, she believed. It was nice and heavy. She stayed hidden, felt its comforting heft in her hands.

It was Fake-Trip.

He'd come for her fail-safe. He'd come for the catwalk controls, her means of blowing up the ship, her means of saving _Enterprise_ from enemy hands. All Hoshi had left was the trigger of her own destruction, and he'd come to take it away.

She was all alone, but she would not let herself fail.

She would kill him.

Hoshi waited in the darkness. He was bigger than her and who knew how strong these things were? But they'd underestimated her. Fake-Trip did not seem to know she was already here. That she was armed. If she was careful, she could get in one solid swing, and that was all she would need.

He checked the smaller accessory access panel first, as she had done, then pulled the main panel free. She used the cover provided by the clatter to move a few steps closer. She could almost reach.

She was patient.

She waited until he was deeply immersed in _whatever_. She risked another step. She was not heard. She inventoried his resources. A few small tools and a diagnostic scanner. A few things that could hurt her, but nothing lethal. In fact, they might be handy when she breached the warp core. Because they were on to her plan now. She couldn't risk delay. She would give up her life.

She was _fine_ with it.

Fake-Tucker worked on, oblivious of his doom lurking behind him. He was, Hoshi thought, really a remarkable likeness. Suliban? Clone? She would never know now.

Two more steps.

"Ahh," he cried out in pain, shaking his right hand, turning away from the controls. As he flinched, he caught sight of her. "Hoshi?"

Fake-Tucker's eyes filled with fear. He knew she was doom. She swung the regulator.

He dodged awkwardly, getting his head out of the way in time and taking the force on his shoulder. There was a sickening crack.

"Hoshi, stop!" The _fake_ was not so good now. He was too pale, his eyes too wide, voice gasping and hoarse.

She swung the regulator again, not bothering to aim much. She hit his rib cage and the blow knocked him off his feet. She quickly pivoted for what she hoped would be the killing blow. She brought the regulator down on him with all her strength.

He reached up quickly catching it with his right hand. His eyes widened with the shock of the blow. There were blisters on his band.

Because he'd burned it.

 _What if he's real?_

The real Trip had burned his hand. She frantically searched his face.

"Trip?" she asked hesitantly.

The pained eyes showed a sudden flash of hope. "That's right, Hoshi. It's Trip. It's okay."

Maybe Trip had survived too. Maybe Trip had come here for the same reason she had. Maybe he could help her. But she needed to know.

He must have seen her hesitation. He rose slowly, right arm extended in a calming gesture, his left positioned awkwardly at his side. Injured. "Hoshi, it's okay. We know this isn't you. We think we know what's happening. We'll help you."

As she hesitated, the air temperature began to climb and a warning light began to flash. The nacelle was powering on.

 _It was a trick._

She'd lost her chance. _Enterprise_ was lost. She would take only one with her.

Screaming in rage, Hoshi raising the regulator above her head.

Fake-Trip fell backwards.

Something powerful slammed into her side and Hoshi fell.

Her head cracked on the walkway.


	14. Chapter 14

"I didn't want him to die," he said to Travis, softly. " I hoped I could save him."

There was blood everywhere. A lot of it. Travis had slipped and was sitting in it, staring at his hand. He'd sliced his palm quite badly. "I didn't have a choice, Malcolm. I didn't want to do it either."

"I know," Malcolm said, quickly. "This isn't your fault." Malcolm was holding the piece of tape which had been over Travis's mouth. He'd had to pull it off pretty quickly when Travis started to retch. It must have hurt.

The blood soaked through Malcolm's undershirt was Wendall's. He'd tried to staunch the flow but it had been fast. Less than a minute. Wendall had been a lost cause before Malcolm had even managed to pull the undershirt off.

"I'm not a killer," Travis said softly.

Something about his voice tore Malcolm's attention off his dead crewman. He wondered what the hell he should say. "I know, Travis."

"He was going to kill you. He was going to kill us all, I think, maybe..."

Malcolm nodded mutely.

"I'm not a killer" Travis said again. His voice had grown much shakier than the last time he'd said it. He was trembling. Staring at his bloodied hand.

Malcolm knew he needed to do better. He swallowed his own distress and focused on the man he could still help. "You didn't kill him Travis. Not really. The Romulans did."

Travis frowned incredulously, not taking his eyes off his hand. "Romulans?"

"It was the distress beacon..."

"I know. I figured that out. He and Hoshi each spent hours listening to that signal. He wasn't surprised _at all_ when he head Hoshi stabbed Archer. He said it made sense. _HE KNEW_ it was the distress beacon and he kept going anyway."

Malcolm waited patiently for Travis to finish. "Yes, you're right. It was the distress beacon. Only it's Romulan, not Kreetassan. T'Pol thinks it's a new application of the Telepresence technology from the drone ship. This must have been a snare, or a test of some kind. I think, maybe, the Kreetassans were caught by accident? Or I don't know, maybe we were supposed to think they were responsible, or..."

"Romulans? I guess that makes more sense than Kreetassans." Travis replied dully.

When Malcolm put a tentative hand on his shoulder, he didn't react. "Travis? I think maybe we should take you to sickbay."

Travis peered up at him and shook his head, slowly. "No we can't. We can't leave the bridge unmanned."

Malcolm supposed he had to concede the point. "Yes, you are probably right."

"He unlocked the main computer before I... before he died. You might be able to get communications up."

Malcolm nodded. "Alright, Travis. I'll try."

 _He would fix the comm, and they would wait for help and..._

Malcolm closed his eyes. _Hoshi._ Below, they thought she was here. No one was looking for her. One of them had to go warn somebody.

"Travis, I've just realised, I have to go back down and quickly give someone a report to pass on. We've not found Hoshi yet and there's an armed response team with itchy trigger fingers, if they don't hear from me..."

Travis nodded slowly.

" ... I'll be right back. Just a few minutes. Unless you want to...?"

Travis's answer was soft. "I don't think I can."

Malcolm grimaced. He did not want to leave him here, alone, but there was no choice. "Okay. I'll go. I'll only be a few minutes. I'll bring someone back and I'll help you to sickbay. Only don't look at... don't sit here on the floor. Maybe go sit in the captain's chair?"

Travis gave him a long doleful look. "Okay. I'll do that."

* * *

They'd dragged Hoshi out. Trip had been anxious about moving her without medical supervision, but the rapidly rising temperature had left them with no choice. A quick cervical spine check with the rudimentary medical function of the diagnostic scanner was the best they could do. All it showed was a hairline skull fracture, and slight coup and contrecoup swelling.

Trip was pretty sure his left clavicle was also fractured, and he'd expected they would wait in the corridor for help. He was surprised then, when Boschmann lifted Hoshi over her shoulder in a fireman's lift. She was stronger than she looked.

He nodded appreciatively. "That was a pretty good tackle, too. Saved my ass, anyway. You're an athlete?"

She smiled broadly, clearly pleased. "Yes sir! Tri-athlete."

"That's the one with the shot-puts, right?" he said, mostly to annoy her. He wasn't sure why.

She shrugged noncommittally, not wanting to contradict him.

When they arrived in sick-bay, Jon's surgery was still going on. Trip had propped open the theatre door, advising Dr Harper of Hoshi's injuries and his own, trying to ignore what she was currently doing.

Harper had exhaled, harried "Scarcely a dull moment, is there? Liz, would you mind scrubbing out and checking Ensign Sato for me, please? Maybe keep her sedated, yes?"

Cutler had nodded and hurried out, shooing Commander Tucker in front of her.

Boschmann, eyes large, buzzed around Hoshi's biobed, as Liz hurriedly performed some scans then ran her findings past Phlox and set up a sedating infusion under his instructions. "I didn't kill her, did I? She hit her head pretty hard..."

Liz's expression softened. "She'll be alright. Nasty concussion, that's all."

Fabrecia laughed with relief, backing up a few steps, right into Malcolm Reed who'd come running through the sickbay doors. He was missing his undershirt and was covered in a fair amount of blood. Fabrecia yelped.

Malcolm boggled at her for a moment, eyes lightening. "Perfect. You'll do, come with me. I just need to tell someone to find Hoshi."

Fabrecia pointed tentatively at the relevant biobed.

Malcolm exhaled. "Oh good, you found her. Is she alright?" He looked searchingly at Liz, who nodded slowly, pointing her medical scanner at him.

T'Pol took a more direct approach. "Lieutenant, you are covered with blood. To whom does it belong, and how did it come to be there?"

Malcolm blinked. "Oh right. It's Wendall's. He's dead. He died. There was nothing...It's all over, I think. I need to get back, though."

"Is Ensign Mayweather unharmed?" T'Pol asked, a slight urgency in her cool voice.

"Travis?" Fabrecia squeaked.

Malcolm turned to look at her. "You have huge eyes."

"Ensign Mayweather?" T'Pol asked again, more forcefully.

"He's upset, he hurt his hand. He wouldn't leave the bridge unmanned. I need to get back."

T'Pol nodded to Malcolm, who exited abruptly, and then to Fabrecia, who hurried after him.

Trip also went to follow them. Liz put her hand on his chest, "You are not climbing a ladder with that collarbone, Commander. _Sit down_."

A few minutes later, Fabrecia returned, half leading a Travis. She put him in a chair and hurried over to Liz, asking softly, "Can I leave him with you? I need to find some people to... help out on the bridge."

Liz nodded, coolly surveying the many occupants of the room. "Sure, _why not_?"

Fabrecia looked hesitantly between Travis and the door. "I'm not... I'll come right back. As soon as I can. I promise."

* * *

"And we're done. Give me a moment te... How's that then?"

Phlox blinked unsure for a moment. Then smiled.

His unbandaged right eye surveyed the room. His iris was still unresponsive to light, so the light in the sickbay had been lowered to suit him. The other occupants of the room did not seem to mind. They were looking at him expectantly.

He smiled one of his more human friendly smiles. " _That_ is a tremendous relief. Well done, Doctor."

Liz exhaled audibly, obviously delighted.

Harper settled back pleased. "Quite the relief to me, as well! It did look like we were getting good adherence and neural transmission, but _the proof is in the pudding_ as they say."

Phlox nodded along. He'd heard that one before.

"It's still less than ideal obviously," Doctor Harper continued. "Monocular vision with cycloplegia, but I'm pretty certain Polomo will fix you right up. I've already set you up with an appointment."

"While it is perhaps not _ideal_ , I assure you it is a great improvement from a few moments ago. And I thank you, very much. I do, however, wish you would not make appointments for me without asking." Phlox grumbled.

Alice held up her hands defensively. "A'right, I apologise. If ye don't want Dr Iskander, don't go to Dr Iskander. That's who I would want though..."

"Oh, of course I want Dr Iskander, he's excellent. My point is I could get an appointment with him without your help."

"I'm sure ye could," Alice said a little too quickly.

Liz became suddenly very interested in a non-descript area of a bulkhead.

Phlox eyed them both suspiciously for a moment.

Liz stood up. "I'm going to check on the other three. But I'm so happy you are doing better, Doctor..." She reached forward and gave him a brief hug, then froze, blushing. "I'm sorry, I forgot. I've just been so worried."

"It's quite alright, Elizabeth..." Phlox called after her, as she made a hasty turned back to find Alice was watching him, eyes narrowed and a small inscrutable smile on her face.

She cleared her throat. "Anyway, no infections and your swelling is well down. I suppose I should _technically_ get an OT to evaluate whether you can do for yourself without depth perception, but we don't seem to _have_ an OT. So, I guess, I am officially discharging you from sickbay. You may go as you will. Try not to walk into anything."

"I suppose I'd like to stay here. I could help you keep an eye on all your patients. I may have _cycloplegic monocular vision_ at the moment, but I'm still a doctor. Their doctor. At least for now."

"Well, it is a pain climbing in and out of that EV suit a million times a day so I don't infect them with my nasty little super-bug. And I have the Kreetassan autopsies to get to... wait, what do you mean _for now_?"

Phlox sighed. He found he was reluctant to express his thoughts aloud. Still, she had a right to know. "I never intended to be away from home this long. From my colleagues. And now, you are here, and this happened..." he indicated his face, absently, distracted by Harper's creasing brow. "And I was wrong about Ensign Sato. Perhaps, if I had been more willing to listen to you about it being a seizure, we would have tracked down the stimulus which caused it and two lives could have been saved. So, I think it's time that I..."

"No."

Phlox looked into her stony eyes, questioningly.

"No," she repeated. "I forbid it. You are _not_ leaving. See Dr Iskander, get your eyes done, maybe catch some of the conference, or sleep for a week, or whatever, and then come back."

"Dr Harper. I realise you've had a traumatic start here, but the workload is not normally quite this bad and..."

"You are needed here, Dr Phlox. They're your people and you aren't walking away from them on my watch...And, besides, I was NOT right about Ensign Sato. I said ' _Xindi mind-control parasite induced seizure'_ not ' _Romulan telepresense-mind-control-thingy induced seizure'_. And I am not used to my life involving sentences like that."

"You _will_ get used to it." Phlox answered, not unkindly.

"Aye. I will. And you'll be here to help me do that. And anyway... what about Liz?"

"I don't know what you mean," Phlox lied.

"Yes, you do." Alice replied immediately, although she then dropped it, her point made.

Phlox considered her. The part of his mind telling him to stay, the part he had been mostly ignoring, now had an ally. His ambivalence grew.

"I'll think about it," he conceded eventually. "And I will monitor our patients."

She nodded, pleased. "And I shall be in decon. Reconstructing those poor Kreetassan folk, and generally despairing at the nature of the universe."

Phlox eyed her curiously. "Why are you doing them in decon?"

She rolled her eyes "Sickbay's full of broken senior staff! And the few that aren't broken are constantly in and out, _fretting_. So aye, _decon_ it is. Where do ye suggest? The mess-hall?"

Phlox considered. She had a point. The cargo bays were unsuitable as well, so shortly out of space-dock, they would be nearly full. He brightened with an idea. "How about the Armoury? There's quite a bit of space there..."

Phlox was not sure why Alice started laughing.

* * *

T'Pol considered Trip and found she was having more trouble than usual calming her expression. He had been busy, restoring _Enterprise_ to function, supervising the recovery of _Treleishkah_ 's crew and passengers, and yet, he had spent an extraordinary amount of time in sickbay. By her side, but barely talking to her. Barely looking at her.

 _Waiting_ , perhaps.

She was struggling to understand _what_ he was waiting for her to say and she found she was desperate to think of whatever it might be. She decided to try an apology.

She had found, with humans, that even if an apology is not what they wanted, they would almost always respond to them in some way. They seemed almost conditioned to acknowledge them, even when rejecting them. She cleared her throat as an overture, rather than from any real necessity.

"Commander Tucker... _Trip_ ," she began, dismayed she had faltered immediately.

His eyes met hers and the sight of them caused her to falter again.

She cleared her throat once again. " _Trip_. I acted foolishly on _Treleishkah_. I thought only of my ability to work in high gravity environments. I had not considered that the environment itself had not been constructed to sustain high gravity for lengthy periods and could have been rendered unsafe. I regret the oversight and any... distress which my injury may have caused you."

Her words had left her vulnerable. She was grateful that Ensign Sato was, as so often, asleep, that Captain Archer was listening to his music device, surveying a PADD.

She watched Trip, watched a myriad of responses play across his face.

An apology was not quite what he wanted then. She waited to see what he would settle upon, refusing to lose his gaze in the silence. Maybe, if what he wanted was indeed within her, he would see it in her eyes.

" _Distress_?" he said, at last, but so flatly her heart clenched. With him, she always chose just the wrong word.

She forgot to command her face.

 _Please don't leave._

She did not know the name of what she felt. Did not know its boundaries. It clawed out from her in all directions.

Then, unaccountably, he forgave her, for all of it. She saw it. Saw the moment.

His voice was raw, husky, "Don't apologise... don't. It's okay. Yes, I was distressed. _Frantic_."

He broke off as Liz Cutler then emerged from Phlox's office. She began briskly fussing around Ensign Sato, smiled congenially in their direction.

The moment passed. T'Pol was sorry it had.

Trip stood up. "Um... I've got to go... but, I'll come back, okay? Later? _I will_."

She nodded and he left.

For a tiny, boundless moment, longing filled her world.

* * *

"Travis?"

He was so still. Normally, she would poke him.

Fabrecia wished that she were a serious person. A carrier of grave and weighty matters. A person who knew what to say.

They were in her quarters. It was always her quarters, the roommate inconvenience notwithstanding. She had indeed gone back to sickbay for him after it was over. After she'd rounded up some staff for the bridge. Some hapless maintenance workers to deal with the blood.

By then his hand had been neatly sutured, dressed. They had fallen into a shower together, then fallen into bed.

And he did not talk much.

Neither did he answer her immediately now. But he did move. He plucked Alice's guitar out of the corner and began strumming it familiarly. "Do you think your roommate would mind if I borrowed this for a while?"

Fabrecia thought he looked damn sexy holding a guitar and then scolded herself for the thought. "I'm sure she wouldn't. She didn't mind that Commander Tucker came by and stole her scotch."

Travis smiled. It wasn't a big smile, but Fabrecia's heart lept at the sight of it. "Did he? That's a shame. I could use a drink."

"There's another bottle."

She clambered off the bed, ferreted it out, hunted for glasses. "Do you want ice?"

"I _KNOW_ there isn't an ice machine in here."

"I'd go get some, from the mess hall, if you wanted it." Fabrecia said, gently touching his arm.

Travis offered another faint smile and teased her, "Would you put a top on before you went?" But his heart was not really in it.

Fabrecia decided she hated Romulans.

"You don't have to stick around, you know? I'm not great company right now," he said softly.

"These are _MY_ quarters. You're the one sticking around," she said, knowingly misunderstanding.

"I meant..."

"I know what you meant. If you want me gone, then okay. But you have to say the words."

For just a moment she had been afraid that he would.

* * *

Jon was tired of sickbay.

"Can't I recuperate in my quarters? I feel fine," he asked Liz Cutler.

He was only lying a little bit. He missed Porthos.

Besides, his presence here was upsetting Hoshi, who refused to look at him or acknowledge his many reassurances . Although, at this rate, she might be discharged before he was.

Liz smiled, adjusting his fluid line. "Dr Phlox doesn't want to discharge you because your Dr Harper's patient and they are still figuring out how to work together. I'll ask her when she comes back. But after she's had some coffee. She's been on autopsy all day, again, and she's cranky."

Liz was true to her word, and in due course, Alice Harper ambled over to him clad in an EV suit, armed with a scanner. She absently closed the privacy curtain. "Good afternoon, Captain. I hear you wish to decamp."

"If you would be so kind. It's kind of crowded in here." He flicked his eyes in Hoshi's general direction, hoping she would get his meaning.

"True, indeed. Alright, let's see what state you're in today." In the EV suit her examination was glacial, testing his patience.

"Is the EV suit really necessary? Aren't I on the same antibiotics as you?" He grumbled.

She smiled. "Aye, it is. For a few more days, anyway. Do you think I enjoy swanning around in this thing?"

"But is it..."

"Now really, do I tell _YOU_ how to captain?"

Jon held up his hands in surrender and waited as she completed her exam.

"A'right, I've no complaints with how you're healing. I'll release you to quarters. Stay completely off duty, mind."

He expected her to leave, but she didn't. "Is there something you wanted?"

Alice frowned. "Yes, actually. I want to tell you how to captain."

Jon raised his eyebrows. "That didn't take long!"

A short pause followed, before Alice spoke. "I mean, it happens now and then, to all of us. Doctors. I mean. Usually out of the blue, sometimes, no rhyme or reason. Doesn't really seem to matter how long you've been...Confidence can be hard sometimes. Ephemeral, you know...?"

Although mystified, Jon nodded.

Pleased at his apparent understanding, she continued. "So what I am saying is... _Maybe_ you find me a little exasperating, hard to get used to? _Maybe_ you can't help but prefer Phlox, and you feel a teensy bit sorry for whatever Captain ends up saddled with me as CMO, one day? If you do, you might say so, ye'know? To Phlox? Fairly soon?"

Before Jon could reply, Alice wandered away to speak to Liz.

The privacy curtain curtain now open again, Jon looked over at Hoshi, not really hopeful. She had her back to him.

It would take time, Jon supposed.

* * *

A glass clinked on his desk.

Malcolm looked up. It was Trip.

"You want to get plastered...in the Armoury?"

Trip nodded, flopping down in a chair as he did. "It's real good scotch."

Malcolm tasted it cautiously. It was. "Where did _you_ get really good scotch?" Trip tended to prefer his booze cheap and cheerful.

"Stole it from someone," Trip said casually, sipping from a glass of his own.

"You remember what my job is, right?"

"It's okay. I 'fessed up. She didn't mind."

Malcolm wasn't sure about having a drink in the Armoury. He could use one, though. A letter to Wendall's parents sat, almost complete, in front of him. He took another sip. It burned pleasantly in his throat. "Who didn't mind."

Trip nodded, swirling his glass, in his left hand. His right had been rebandaged, again. "Harper. She's okay about it. We're friends."

" _Friends_? You've had maybe three conversations with the woman."

Trip smiled, contemplatively. "People like me. Where you shout at people in corridors, I'm nice to people."

"You shout at _ME_ in corridors," Malcolm answered darkly.

"Yeah I do. And I'm sorry."

"For which time?"

"The times when you didn't deserve it."

The silence that followed was mostly comfortable.

About half way down his drink, Trip spoke again. "I came to tell you, Starfleet Intelligence thinks you and T'Pol are probably right about what happened. Beacon, brainwashing, Romulans." Trip shook his head. "Although, doesn't really explain it all, does it? I mean, god Malcolm, everything went to hell. Are you sure that's all there is to this?"

Malcolm studied his glass. "Frankly, no, I'm not. I mean, never mind that the beacon's computer core self-destructed, and never mind that all our recordings of the distress call have been wiped from _our_ core. Even setting _that_ aside, I can't even tell for sure who was even affected, can I? Obviously Wendall and Hoshi were, and they both listened to the distress signal AND were on board when that strange sound played over the speakers when you linked up with the _Treleishkah_ computer. I wasn't on _Enterprise_ for that, but I did listen to the distress signal a bunch of times. So, me as well. But what about T'Pol running off alone after that medkit? Or Travis repeatedly spacing on his first aid training and making out with Boschmann in the Kreetassan medbay? Or..."

"Or me losing it, and Jon failing to reign me in?"

"Or, for that matter, drinking in the Armoury, right now. Although, thanks to your chronic absenteeism from meetings, you never heard the signal, so we can probably exclude _you_ , at least..."

Trip smiled wryly. "So everybody has an excuse, but me?"

Malcolm's reply caught in his throat, and they fell, again into silence. When he did speak again it was not a reply. "Do you have any idea what it's been like trying to investigate this thing? What it's going to be like? Who made bad decisions, when, and why? What counts? Who was affected by some sort of mysterious Romulan mind control waves and who was just traumatised, or suffering from Expanse PTSD, or green and stupid, or..."

"...grief stricken and hysterical?"

Again, Malcolm dodged. "The more I think about it, the more I wonder if that's the point. Because we'll never be sure what happened, will we? We'll always be paranoid. Wondering if it can happen again. The weapon isn't the mind-control. The weapon is the fear."

"So this is just the new normal is it?" Trip replied after a long pause. "Mysterious, underhanded adversary, with a terrifying new weapon which we aren't sure we even understand, and have no real way to guard against? Because we can't tell who's been hijacked until it gets to the point where they start swinging regulators at our heads?"

"Yes, pretty much," Malcolm agreed. "Chin up though, it could be worse. It could be _your job_ to try to come up with a way to guard against it. You know the best part, though? You know who I would have chosen to help me figure it out?"

Trip thought he did know. "Wendall? Starfleet Intelligence is already working on a protective filter for incoming subspace transmissions. Because we lost most of the other data, I sent Wendall's report on the pulses to them. Apparently that helped a lot."

Malcolm smiled thinly, tried to act like he was alright. "That's good to know. I'll put that in the letter, I think."

Trip raised his head, interested. "Is that it? Let me see... T'Pol did Lazlo's. It was god-awful, of course. Don't worry, Jon fixed it."

Malcolm sipped, his drink as Trip read the letter.

"It's good. A good letter for parents. This will mean something to them, eventually, anyway. Offer some comfort." There was something hollow in Trip's voice.

A second later, Malcolm cringed. "Oh, bloody hell. Trip, I'm sorry, you shouldn't be reading that." Malcolm reached for the PADD.

Trip closed his eyes. "Malcolm? I'm going to need you to stop doing that."

Malcolm froze. "Doing what?"

"Coddlin' me. You're bad at it, and it's driving me crazy, and you need to stop."

Malcolm fell back into his chair as if he'd been pushed. "I...don't..."

"You don't have to. You just have to stop it. Never mind, _annoying_ , do you know how _dangerous_ it is? That I could have killed you sending you on some half-baked rescue mission, with just Travis and newbies for backup? And when, exactly, were you planning to tell me that I nearly killed T'Pol by turning the grav-plating off without warning?"

"Well..."

"Malcolm?"

"Never. I was _never_ going to tell you." Malcolm admitted dolefully. Trip was glaring at him furiously and he had no idea what to say. He sipped his scotch to fill up time, resisting the sudden urge to drain the whole glass at once.

In the end, Trip spoke, voice dangerously quiet. "Well, Malcolm, I'm sorry that that act of devastating condescension didn't come to pass. I was talking to Ensign Boschmann and she happened to mention that when the grav-plating went off, everything went to shit. When I asked why, she hedged like crazy, but she doesn't know any better. She doesn't know me. _YOU_ know me, Malcolm, _YOU_ know better."

"No wonder Harper let you keep her scotch," Malcolm quipped, without thinking.

That had been happening too much lately. Neglectful guarding of his words, things pouring out.

Like when Hoshi woke up. He'd visited, and her hair had been hanging lankly in her face, her eyes cast down. Someone had given her a rough version of events and she had tried haltingly to thank him. For knowing, almost at once, that _something_ had caused her behaviour, for figuring it out. For knowing that she would never hurt her friends, that she would not betray _Enterprise_.

"Of course, Hoshi..." he had said. " _I_ would never believe something like that about _YOU_."

He'd told himself later, he hadn't meant to say it quite like it had sounded. That he'd meant it plainly. That he hadn't meant to drag his old grudge into this. That he wasn't that cruel.

And she'd cried. Silent sobs, marked only by the shaking of her shoulders. "Oh Malcolm... what happened to us?"

Unsteadily, Malcolm now wondered if Trip might ask the same thing.

He didn't. Instead, Trip exhaled and smiled a wain smile. "And _I_ know _YOU,_ Malcolm. I know you want to be there for me. And I'm trying to tell you how. So quit arguing. Or rather, _START_ arguing with me. When I deserve it." He stood up. "And drink your scotch."

Malcolm smiled "Well, I'll do that part gladly."

Trip paused, thoughtful. "You tried talking to Hoshi?"

Malcolm nodded. "It did not go very well..."

"Yeah. Malcolm? Try again."

Malcolm finally drained the glass. "You're right. I will."

 **END OF CLARION: PART ONE**

* * *

 **Author note: Thank you so much for reading, I'm honoured.**


End file.
